


In Her Ladyship's Secret Service

by Vermilion_Sunrise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bodyguard, F/M, Political Westeros, Politicians, Romance, Secret Service - Freeform, Sexual Tension, She's a man eater, Slow Burn, Strong Sansa Stark, The Steel Maiden, Wear a damn tie, protection detail, tease
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:41:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21756979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vermilion_Sunrise/pseuds/Vermilion_Sunrise
Summary: SanSan, Modern A/U: A string of death threats and a break-in leaves Lady Sansa Stark of the Northern Freedom Party no choice but to find a top level bodyguard. Sandor Clegane was the elite of the elite soliders in Westeros, now fighting his demons in a struggle to take back his life. Not only will a job offer in her ladyship's secret service change his world's direction, but he may also help her uncover some long kept secrets in the process.Pulling influences from Bodyguard (TV), Game of Thrones, and Zero Dark Thirty let's see if I can (for once) do this modern A/U thing right ;-)
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 254
Kudos: 267





	1. Part 1: Into the Fire: Chapter 1: Three Step Program

**Author's Note:**

> It will be a slow post on this one, just due to the fact that I'm trying to finish lots of projects at once. I really hope I hit on something with this modern AU. I LOVE LOVE LOVE them so much and I really want to do something meaningful where there is a story but also the characters are cute and work well together. Fingers crossed this works. 
> 
> For me this is a case study in dialogue, and intrigue. It's not always so easy...and I know I struggle with this. 
> 
> Kisses to baileyblueroan for giving this a read through!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovering from PTSD Sandor gets a call that will change the direction of his life.

# Part 1

# Chapter 1: Three Step Program

“....twenty-three, twenty-four….uhhhh,shhhhhh, twenty-five!” Sandor fought with the last chest press in his set before he lifted the three hundred and sixty pound bar back to its holder. He was sweating in the stark mugginess of his garage, breathing hard from the exertion. There was a huge sense of satisfaction with his new best weight. He couldn’t help but crack a grin as he lay there exhausted. 

Retirement from the special forces had not always had its upsides. To be frank there had been way more lows on his road to a normal existence. Somehow the fighter in Sandor always seemed to make it through, this time would be no exception--even if it had taken him longer than expected.

The ring of his cell phone startled Sandor from where he lay on his workout bench. Partly because nobody ever called him, and partly because he hadn’t recognized the ring, precisely because of the fact that no one ever called him. A vicious cycle some might say, Sandor just referred to it as peace and fucking quiet. 

Wiping his sweaty face with a towel, Sandor spied the phone on his tool bench so as to solve the case of the mystery caller from afar. _Bronn,_ rolling his eyes, Sandor took a moment to consider whether he should pick up, or let the call die. 

There had been a time in Sandor’s life where he and Bronn of the Blackwater had been as thick as thieves. They had grown up in the slums of King’s Landing and signed up for the army as a way to raise themselves up from the poverty and the hunger of Flea Bottom. They’d gone to war together, studied tactics together, and been picked for the special forces together. Seven hells, they’d even shared the same girl once. 

The two of them, different as night and day, spent years being shipped overseas, parachuting into war zones, and coming out of it on the other side no worse for the wear. All for King and Country, or any other bullshit that was shoved down military men’s throats. Then, Sandor had been posted to Wolf Team 6, the elite of the elite. It was a blow to his brother in arms, who had been given a lowly coordination job within the team. Bronn became that voice over the coms that came during the heat of battle, the one everybody always gave shit to for sitting pretty behind a desk.

Sandor had always been a better, more efficient killer than Bronn. On top of that, he never bitched about the things they were asked to do. He simply did them with the amount of emotional distance necessary to move on to the next mission. So it had not surprised him when Bronn had been overlooked for the promotion, as a matter of fact, the only one who had seemed surprised was Bronn.

A sad departure and a bitter one for the two of them. Sandor’s friend hadn’t taken it well to say the least. Had blamed Sandor in some fucked up way for it too.

At the end of it all, over ten years after Sandor’s promotion to Wolf Team 6, Bronn had an honorable discharge from the military and started his own private security firm. Sandor, on the other hand, had been offered an early retirement, given all his medals, a super pension, and thrust into counseling. “Damaged goods,” “unstable,” “a rabid dog,” never to be spoken of again.

The things he’d seen and the acts he’d committed had finally caught up with him. Everything came to a head on a mission where Sandor had lost his cool, committed crimes of war that were nearly inexcusable. Had he been anyone other than _Sandor Clegane_ , he would have surely ended up wasting away in an international criminal court system somewhere. 

Deep down Sandor knew he had not been fit for duty on his last deployment; knew what he was doing was wrong as he opened fire on a bunch of civilians in Mereen. He had known he was a ticking time bomb and had done nothing about it until it was too late. War had left its mark on Sandor, and he’d spent the last couple of years trying his best to figure out what that meant, and even more, how to move on from it. 

That was why he picked up the phone.

“Yeah?” he answered.

“As I live and breath, he knows how to use a bloody cell phone! How’s it goin’ you ugly bastard?” Bronn’s voice had changed little from their time in the military; perhaps a bit huskier from smoking, who could say? Certainly his way with people hadn’t changed at all.

“Fuck you, ya scrawny son-of-a-whore. Now what in the seven hells do you want?” Sandor wasn’t one for small talk, even if he hadn’t spoken to his former best friend in a while. Bronn knew that all this used-car-salesman-talk he employed to market his company and “maintain relationships” was not to Sandor’s liking. Bronn also knew that if he wanted something from Sandor, which he surely did, that this was not the way to go about doing it.

“Still as mean as ever, huh? I always liked that about you, Clegane. It was always endearing in its own royally fucked up way.” There was a silence on the other end of the phone, as if Bronn were waiting for a laugh. Instead he got Sandor’s heavy breathing, his first and only threat that he would hang up on his old compatriot if he didn’t start getting to the point. 

“Soooo, I’ll get straight to the point then,” his friend continued in a somewhat uncomfortable voice. “I heard you passed your psych evals with flying colors. As a matter of fact, a little birdy told me you’re looking as fit and mean as you ever have, which means I gotta job for you.”

Sandor’s old friend had been trying to get him to work for his agency for years, but he had always refused. It was amazing what money could do for a friendship that had been gutted by jealousy and war. At the beginning it had been simple, he had either been active military or on psych eval. Now Sandor couldn’t hide behind these security blankets, he would have to start admitting to himself that he had fear about being in the thick of battle again

No matter how many times he’d talked about it to a psychologist, or picked it apart in the dark of night while he sweated in his bed, it was a difficult thing to come to terms with. That something he had excelled at, done for the good of others, could be perverted into such pain and anguish.

Men in Sandor’s position were either living under Baelor’s Bridge, in a loony bin, or working in private security. Having flirted with the first two throughout his treatment, Sandor knew it was time to do something drastic to change his situation. Bronn did security for everybody from movie stars to five-star generals going into a deep war zone. Given Sandor’s past, he knew where his skill set would be the most useful.

Exhaling, Sandor remembered what his therapist had told him. That he should get out and be with people again, that he should do some work that interested him. Surely the young woman giving him advice had not envisioned him taking up private security; she probably would have preferred him to be a gardener or an odd jobs sort of guy. But that wasn’t him, not one bit. Snorting, Sandor suppressed that little voice in his head telling him to hang up, “What’s it about?”

There was a short silence on the other end of the phone, as if Bronn couldn’t believe Sandor had even shown a slight bit of interest in what he had to say. His friend quickly continued, once he’d picked his jaw off the floor, “It’s a job that certainly needs your killer expertise. Wait, I..uh...meant that metaphorically. I can’t tell you much over the phone, but it’s a political protection detail.”

“Like suits’n shit?” Sandor asked, picking some dirt out from underneath his fingernails. 

“Uh yeah, something like that. But hey, you won’t even need to leave King’s Landing. It’s an easy job, but the customer won’t agree to the contract unless they have,” Bronn paused a moment trying to find the right word, “a man of your gravitas, shall we say. And cornfed boys like you, well you just don’t see too many of them.” There was an uncomfortable laugh on the other end of the phone as if his old friend wasn’t sure if the joke would land well with Sandor. 

“I’m interested,” Sandor answered finally. “But I’m not sayin’ yes. I’m just sayin’ I’ll come in and hear more.”

“I knew you would, ol’boy. I promise you, you’re gonna love it. Come in tomorrow, eight o’clock to my offices downtown. You still remember where they are?

“Yup.” Sandor replied simply.

“Great. Now wear a suit and don’t come in lookin’ like you slept on a park bench for the last week. You get what I mean?” Bronn was joking a bit, but in every joke there was a bit of truth. 

The truth was that Sandor and Bronn hadn’t spoken to one another in over twenty-four months. Even before then, their strained relationship had not lent itself to too much chatter. That was why his old friend was so uncomfortable over the phone, unsure if Sandor was breakable or solid. Surely this contract was big, the person important, otherwise he wouldn’t have reached out to Sandor as he had. The last time Bronn had seen Sandor, he’d been covered in blood and in the brig awaiting his shipment back to Westeros.

_Not my best look,_ Sandor lamented.

“I’ll look presentable.” Sandor answered, “But I’m not wearing a tie. You got that?” 

Neck ties bothered him in principle, because he knew what could be done with them should the need arise. You could get a man to talk real nice and easy by restricting his airflow, or break his neck with a simple grab and twist. Sandor wasn’t a man to take unnecessary risks; his life, and the many decorations he had in the name of his country were a testament to that. Fuck, the fact that he was alive after serving in an elite force for over ten years was a testiment to that.

“You’re breakin’ my balls here, Clegane. But fine. No tie, this time.” There was a genuine laugh on the other end of the phone, one that reminded Sandor of happier moments the two had shared.

“Tomorrow, eight hundred, don’t look like a bum. I got it.” Sandor repeated.

They hung up and Sandor put down the phone, pressing his face into his gym towel. It smelled of sweat and grime, of things he knew well. Now he would have to be somebody he wasn’t, morph into a hired muscle for some uptight politician in King’s Landing. But this was what he was told he needed to do, to branch out and get back on the horse again, so to say. 

Sandor looked at his face in the bathroom mirror. He wasn’t so sure he knew the man staring back at him. As a matter of fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d really looked in the mirror at all. The person staring back at him was tan from long hours spent fixing his house and working in his garden. He had aged, but not horribly. The lines of worry and anger on his face were born of experiences that no human being should have taken part in, much less lived through. 

Sandor was surprised to see how long his beard had become, covering much of his neck, puffing out from his chin unkempt. His long hair had light streaks of grey, but they looked distinguished as if he were wiser than he felt. It was his eyes that had changed the most over the years.

Though they still held their molten steel, hypnotic color, it was what they contained that worried Sandor the most. They contained a soul he could not recognize, a man with a past, but no present or future. _A shell, a ghost?_ They had always been cold and unyielding, the color of hard, wet stone, but they had never been lost. 

“You’ll never find yourself sittin’ around here,” Sandor said aloud.

He thought it might give him more courage than it did. Snorting with amusement at his sudden boldness, he took the electric clippers from his bathroom drawer and assessed his face. He opened his mouth, turned his cheeks so he could view himself from all angles, blinked his eyes to make sure he was alive. 

He wanted to remember this moment, remember where he started this new journey from. 

Setting the clippers to the third level, be began to shorten his beard, huge clumps of hair floating into the sink. Then he moved it down to the second, and finally the first level. Sandor would never clean shave again, he was over with military life. Yet cropping his dark beard close to his face made his jawline come back into view. It reminded him he had a strong set jaw, and if it hadn’t been for the massive scarring on his face he might have even done well for himself with women. 

He ran his hands over his newly trimmed face, partially to get the loose hair out, and partially to ensure he was still there.Then he combed his hair with a wet brush, made sure it was at its longest and chopped a good couple inches off of it. Sandor gathered what was left into a ponytail and ran the clippers over his neck. He was used to giving himself haircuts, he’d had to do it often before deployment, as taking time to go to the barber wasn’t an option.

“Step one, don’t look like a hobo,” he assessed himself one last time in the mirror and nodded in satisfaction before heading to his bedroom.

Sandor kept a neat house, and an impeccably well kept bedroom. Old habits die hard and he liked the order that neatness provided him. Reaching far into the back of his closet, pushing his ordered junk to the side, Sandor dug out a dark blue suit and a white dress shirt. He’d put on some muscle mass since he’d worn this suit last, he could feel it in the arms and thighs. If this job was going to happen, he would need to get the tailor to make him a couple of new suits, even if he despised them greatly. A guy his size didn’t just find clothing at a normal store, and if he’d need to move around they would have to be specially made. 

_Surely good ol’ Bronn will pay for that,_ he laughed to himself. 

“Step two, wear a suit,” Sandor was satisfied with his simple blue suit and white dress shirt. They hugged his sporty physique well and enhanced his size, which would be an advantage to any potential client. 

It was already late in the evening by the time Sandor had made himself a simple dinner of eggs, tuna, and some salad. He plopped down on his couch, plate in hand, to watch some of the shows there. Nothing had ever really interested him, but the TV did distract him from his own thoughts, so he did his best to focus on some show or another. _White noise._

“And in other news, Lady Sansa Stark and her Northern Freedom Party are taking other members of parliament to task on their voting records. The fiery Lady of the North is not backing down when it comes to…” Sandor shut off the news, he had no interest in what was going on in the city. All he knew was that he would very likely get hired to protect one of these fancy buggers, who cared more about their own reelections than actually helping people.

“Step three, show up on time and breathe,” Sandor told himself as he slipped quietly into bed. Sleep never came easy for Sandor Clegane, but when it did, it came with the uncertainty of what tomorrow would bring.


	2. Sad Little Rich Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A job interrogation doesn't deter Sandor from his goals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm about to go on holiday so it's nice to get a few chapters out there before I disappear for some weeks. Let's see if I can write while I am away as well. Fingers crossed and thanks for reading!

#  Chapter 2: Sad Little Rich Girl

It appeared as if the meeting was already well underway as Sandor strolled up to Bronn’s fishtank like office at 8am on the dot. His old friend hadn’t changed one bit, he was still greasy, skinny and, in Sandor’s opinion, ugly as fuck. But then again, he was in no position to judge men’s looks. 

Unsure as to whether to enter, Sandor took stock of the people inside. There was Bronn, doing his sales pitch to an unwilling audience, clearly unaware that a man three times the size of a normal one was blocking the light of the hall from his fancy office. There was a young lady Sandor didn’t know, but she was surely Bronn’s assistant and he was obviously fucking her. It was the way she laughed at his jokes, which always lacked any humor that Sandor was familiar with. She also continued to put her hair behind her ear, listening as if captivated by a troubadour bringing stories from some far away land.

How Bronn pulled women Sandor would never know, but he did. He always did.

There were two other captives in the room, one large woman with short blonde hair, and a skinny man with a pervert mustache. The woman sat upright, shoulders back with an enviable posture. Sandor knew instantly she was former military. At the time he had entered the ranks there were very few women. Those that did choose to join and stay, endured alot of physical and sexual abuse. Sandor had never liked it, never taken part of it, but he had never stopped it either.  _ One of my many past fuck ups,  _ he remembered his discussion with his therapist on this point.

A woman of her age and size would have been a prime target for those who felt like less of a man in the face of a physically strong woman. Though he could not see her face from where she sat, Sandor was certain it held a bitterness and sadness that nobody, not even him, could fathom. 

The man to her left was sitting in profile to Sandor, and he already pissed him off. It was difficult to put his finger on it, but Sandor knew this man had power and wielded it for his own benefit. He would be the person agreeing to the contract. Perhaps it was the way he was sitting in the chair, not even feigning interest in Bronn’s words, that tipped Sandor off to this fact. Perhaps it was the outlandishly expensive purple suit he wore, surely made from some of the most expensive silk in Dorne. Either way, Sandor’s gut was telling him to keep an eye on this one. 

In the military they would have called it a case of the “limp dick”. A guy that needed to show he was the most important one in the room, needed everybody to know he made the decisions, but would always pull out when the real work came. It was men like Sandor who were sent to do the dirty work, so men like him could keep their dicks clean. Sandor despised these kinds of men, it was deeply ingrained. 

Bronn’s assistant must have seen him leering in the doorway for Sandor noticed her hand move, motioning he come inside. Inhaling deeply to enjoy the calm before the storm, Sandor took the door handle and stepped through, somehow wishing he were engaging hostiles in a combat zone and not in a job interview. 

“There’s the man of the hour!” Bronn exclaimed, standing up from his desk and walking around to embrace Sandor. Doing his best not to react surprised, Sandor patted Bronn on the back hoping it didn’t come across as if they had spoken all these years.

“Looking sharp in that suit, man. What did I say?” Bronn looked over at his guests, “Have you put on some muscle since I last saw you, brother?” 

Sandor left the question hanging in the air and turned his eyes to the others in the office. Taking the obvious hint, Bronn introduced everybody in turn. “This is my lovely assistant Lollys,” Sandor shook her hand softly and tried to smile, knowing he’d never match her annoyingly bubbly one.

“This is Brienne of Tarth, Security Detail for the politician in question.” Sandor turned to the tall blonde woman. She was nearly his height when she stood up, though she lacked his width. He hadn’t been wrong, the thin line her lips formed and her lack of smile spoke of a hardness one only develops when hazed in the military. She gave his hand a good hard shake, and Sandor took another look at her. She was plain but by no means ugly.  _ Dependable, professional, but a bit nervous.  _ It wasn’t out of the normal for security people to be vigilant, but she struck him as having a bit more fear than most. 

“Finally we have Lord Peytr Baelish, the Chief of Staff for the politician in question,” he held his hand out as if Sandor should kiss it. Sandor, however, was quick to turn it so that he could shake Lord Baelish’s hand instead. What he got was a limp handshake.  _ Fucking hate limp handshakes, just about as much as I hate limp dicks,  _ Sandor fought a sneer. He knew this man was one to be careful of, what he didn’t have in size, he made up for in games--that was clear.

“Please, take a seat, my friend,” Bronn motioned to a chair and Sandor opened the lowest button on his suit jacket to sit down. The chair creaked under his weight, but didn’t give way. Chairs, like suits, weren’t made for big guys like him either.

Before Bronn could continue the meeting, Lord Baelish took over,  _ Typical limp dick move,  _ Sandor noted. “So I assume Mr. Blackwater has told you about our little...offer?”

“No.” Sandor answered, not about to play some into some kind of power trip just to get a guy with a pedo mustache off. 

Playing surprised, Lord Baelish turned to Bronn, “Well then I guess this is the perfect moment to get to know more about Sandor Clegane.” His beady little eyes set on Sandor, he crossed his legs and leaned in, as if the next words that came out of Sandor’s mouth were the most important thing in the world. 

There was no way Sandor could like this guy, not one bit. He wanted to punch that condescending smile off his smooth little face.  _ Who even wears a pussy tickler these days?  _ Sandor laughed to himself.

“That’s Captain, my Lord,” Sandor corrected him sharply. He had never been one for titles and ranks, but there were times where you needed them to achieve certain ends. In this instance, it was seeing how much he could piss off this pencil pusher in his fancy silks.

“Excuse me?” Lord Baelish answered, feigning confusion. 

“Captain,” Sandor repeated in an overly polite manner, enjoying the shift of the tone in the room. He could play games too. “My rank is Captain First Class, Wolf Team 6. That’s the first thing you should know about me.” There was a certain joy Sandor couldn’t describe as seeing all the fake kindness drain from Baelish’s face, even Bronn’s for that matter. While Sandor was never physically underestimated, he was often taken for a fool, and that he certainly was not.

“Oh I see, my deepest apologies,” Baelish answered before moving on, “So, erm, Captain First Class Clegane, in your resume you have many theaters of war listed, but there are a couple of years on and off that cannot be accounted for. Explain that.”

“That’s classified, my Lord, and I don’t think your security clearance covers it either.” Sandor leaned in slightly, as if he were going to whisper it, but of course he said it loud enough for all to hear. 

If there was one thing Sandor knew, it was that you couldn’t show any weakness in front of a man like this. It was his job to exploit weaknesses for personal gain, that was why he had chosen politics as his poison. 

The two men eyed one another a moment in an uncomfortable silence. Lord Baelish narrowed his eyes and twisted his grin, it was a hideous thing if you looked at it in the right light. Sandor could read it like a book though, the dismay and dislike this man harbored for military men was strong. To a man like this, Sandor was a brute and nothing more. He was an implement of war, a knight to be played on a chess board and sacrificed at will. 

“Of course,” Lord Baelish began, his eyes fluttering in annoyance. “As I hear it though, you were part of the team that took down the Mad King,” the well placed pause made it clear to Sandor that he had been waiting to hang this over his head. Sandor’s adam’s apple bobbed up and down, otherwise he did not show his nervousness on the topic. 

Lord Baelish continued, a victorious smirk on his face, “The way it was told to me, it was you who put the bullet right between his insane little violet eyes.” Baelish’s words were precision sniper shots into Sandor’s consciousness. That mission was classified; the fact that Sandor had fired the deadly shot was a state secret of the highest security clearance, unless of course you knew the right people or got the right soN-of-a-bitch drunk. 

_ He’s got power, more than he should have,  _ needless to say Sandor was listening, careful to ensure he didn’t step too far beyond the line with this man.

Sandor’s eyes shifted to Bronn accusingly, before he refocused on the twat in front of him. “You hear a lot of interesting rumors, my Lord. As I am sure you are well aware, I can neither confirm nor deny my involvement in such an operation. All I can say is that I was active at that time in the special forces, serving Westeros in the highest capacity.” Sandor kept a neutral expression. He could be a well behaved dog when he needed to be.

The battle lines were drawn. If information like that were to get out, it could ruin Sandor’s life--put him on a hit squad for the Targarian loyalists. He’d have to go into hiding for the rest of his life, it was a piece of information to be lorded over Sandor, if he’d allow it. 

His answer must have been pleased and affirming to Lord Baelish, for he settled into his chair like a mother hen settling on some eggs, “We’ll have to have a drink some time so I can learn more about the depths you were willing to go to serve our beloved country.” 

Whatever those depths had been, Sandor was sure they were not as low as what Lord Baelish was capable of to meet his own ends. It was difficult to fight the rising bile in his throat at the thought of working with this man in any capacity.

Baelish leafed through Sandor’s file a moment. “You have many medals for courage under fire, valor, purple hearts, distinguished service. Is there anything you would like to elaborate on?”

“No,” Sandor answered, “I did my job no matter what the cost, and the government saw it fit to load my formal dress with all sorts of extra weight. In the end, I did what was asked of me. Nothing more.”

“Nothing more?  _ What _ a patriot,” Baelish’s words made Sandor’s blood boil, but he did his best to control his breathing. A man like Baelish had no idea what it was like to serve King and Country, would never have been able to endure the loss of friends and brothers as Sandor had. A man like Baelish was loyal to only one person, himself. 

Aside from that, this was supposed to be an interview, not an interrogation. “Yet I can’t imagine that, after all these years and missions, going to the most dangerous places in the world. That it didn’t weigh on you, bother you in some….way.”

It irked Sandor that this pissant sitting next to him knew more about his past than he let on. Bronn had pulled a real dick move, allowing Sandor to walk into enemy territory with no preparation, no understanding of what was to come next. Lord Baelish knew what he wanted to get out of Sandor, have him either admit his most desperate moment in front of all in attendance, or to go on as if nothing happened. As Sandor’s “meltdown” was classified, he would have to go on record as if he hadn’t killed innocent civilians. This bothered Sandor greatly.

He didn’t have to answer though, Bronn must have recognized Sandor’s growing discomfort, or rage. “Nothing ever gets this one down. Clegane is the perfect soldier, unlike some of us.”

Bronn’s attempt to lighten the air by making a joke at his own expense didn’t quite go to plan, but it did manage to move the conversation along. Lord Baelish smiled fakely, then looked down at the file again. But he knew he’d stumbled onto a soft spot of Sandor’s and it angered the big man more than he could say.

“And you have no political leanings, Captain Clegane? Surely you must have some thoughts on the government that sent you around the world to kill, maim, and destroy. I mean, you bare the scars of irreparable damage because of it.” Sandor clenched a fist at his side where Baelish could not see it. They were both playing games, testing the other, and Sandor felt it unnecessary for a simple protection detail.

“My lord,” Sandor began after an uncomfortable silence, “I have a military career that spans over twenty years. I fought under different Kings and Prime Ministers from different Houses and different Parties. In the end, the theaters of war change, but the orders stay the same. As for my scars, they come from growing up in Flea Bottom, where children experience inconvenient truths every day. But I hear the politicians are working to solve that…”

Bronn cut him off quickly, “That they are, my friend. But should we not let our illustrious Captain know more about the possible job?” His eyes went to Brienne and Sandor shifted away from the murderous glare of Lord Baelish. 

If Sandor had to guess, the interview wasn’t going the way Bronn had envisioned it.  _ Not my problem,  _ was Sandor’s mantra on the whole thing. Yet he couldn’t deny that he was intrigued by the amount of secrecy surrounding his possible principal.

Sandor was handed an envelope by Brienne. It was thick and weighty, barely containing its contents. “These contain all of the death threats we’ve received on the life of Lady Sansa Stark this week. I take it you are familiar with her?” 

Sandor shook his head, “I don’t watch that much TV.” There was clear surprise in the room that he didn’t know the woman. He knew the name Stark, you couldn’t be in Wolf Team 6 without knowing it. So surely she was related to the founder of his unit, but he couldn’t put a face to the name Sansa, much less a political career.

“Lady Stark has become a prominent member of parliement in the last two years, since the assassination of her brother, Lord Robb Stark.” Brienne began, still somewhat in shock. That rang a bell, it had been all over the news how some kid from the Northern Freedom Party had been stabbed to death at a political gathering. He’d bled out before the ambulance could get to him. A pity as it seemed he had his whole life in front of him. 

Sandor merely listened to Brienne with interest, “Since his death, his younger sister, Sansa, has taken up the fight so to speak, and has begun to hold members to account over various dealings.”

“And this hasn’t made her very popular I take it,” Sandor added.

“Correct, sir.” She answered, though Sandor loathed the title.

“The Lady Stark has come under fire for inflammatory remarks, and for the simple point that she refuses to back down.” Sandor could sense a reverence in her voice for the Lady Stark. He could understand why. Strong women tended to gravitate toward other strong women. 

“We need a personal guard for her with experience, somebody who will stay cool under fire, somebody….”

Lord Baelish chimed in, “Her apartment was broken into last week. Whore, bitch and I’m gonna kill you scrawled on the wall in what appeared to be blood. Now we don’t know if the intent is there or not, but groups with commitment like that...well, who knows what they could do?” 

Sandor almost laughed out loud, as he was sure Lord Baelish could answer his own question but didn’t. “Don’t you think a man like me is overkill for a bunch of hooligans? Seems to me like a man could die if I get involved. But I guess that’s why you want me, right?”

“We want you,” Brienne began before Baelish could snip at him. Though she could not hide the bit of emotion rising in her voice, “because her Ladyship is the last of her House, and the last of a breed of politicians doing something for the good of the people. She’s…”

“Of great value to us and we need her to be protected. Can you do that or not?” Lord Baelish was not one for emotion, fuck, he didn’t care if Lady Stark was changing the world or just doing his bidding. But he had a reason for wanting her alive, one that he wasn’t telling anyone. 

Sandor’s gaze went between the two. He trusted Brienne. She was honest and she cared for the woman she had been protecting. Sandor weighed the envelope in his hand, unsure what he wanted to do. 

“Tell ya what,” Bronn began, stepping in to try to save the conversation and what was certainly a hefty contract. “Let’s have Ol’Captain Clegane take the file home and review it, then if the job is agreeable, he can just show up in the morning. If we’re in agreement that he is who you want.”

Balelish flashed that creepy smile that made Sandor uneasy, “But of course. I mean just look at him, a brute like that is made for such work. I’m sure it will even be easy for him.” 

Sandor refrained from punching Baelish in the face, but only just. They shook hands instead and Sandor did his best not to crush his limp little hand in his mighty fist. As Brienne got up she saluted him, clearly in the military of some kind, as he had envisioned. Sandor returned her gesture of respect. Surely he outranked her by far. 

“If you want the job, come down to the Baratheon Building at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Dress sharp and be ready for a long day.” That was the last thing Brienne said before she followed the Chief of Staff for Lady Stark out the door. 

Sandor released a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Lollys, could you do me a favor, love? Go bring us some coffee, yeah?” Bronn was right to get her out of the office, as both he and his old friend were about to have a shouting match. 

Once the door was shut, Bronn let loose, “What in the seven bloody hells was that? Huh? Are you trying to ruin me?”

Sandor kept his cool, “Nope. I just don’t like him.”

“It’s not your fucking job to like Lord fucking Baelish, or anybody else. Thank the gods you won’t be protecting the bugger.” Bronn was upset, clearly the meeting had also not gone how he had envisioned either.

“Pricks like that like to power trip, and I’m not up for that. Besides, do you really think its necessary for them to pay so much money for me to babysit a member of parliament?” Sandor let his frustration out. His therapist said it was good for him to do so.

What she had probably not fully understood was that the slightest raising of the voice from a man like him, escalated situations quickly. People died when he raised his voice, and not always by his hand.

“Are you deaf, Clegane? It’s bloody Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, her family has ruled the North since before the first men for all I bloody know. Open the file, just open the damned thing!”

“You told him about my past,” Sandor said, feeling the anger rising in his chest. “You told that cunt about me killing the Mad King to win this fucking contract. So don’t lecture me on playing games. I should have your whole fucking pension revoked…” Sandor stopped himself from going further, seeing how angry his friend was.

Bronn had betrayed him, that was true, but it wasn’t for anything other than getting a quick buck. Somehow innocuous, at least from what Sandor could tell. Either way, he suspected that Baelish had his own means to find out information above his rank and security clearance.  _ He would have figured it out anyway. _

Sandor eyed his friend and opened the file. On the top of the folder was a picture of her taken as she walked out of the parliament building. She was caught unawares, her hair flowing in the wind, not looking into the camera but to somebody next to her.  _ Beautiful,  _ was all Sandor could think. He must have raised an eyebrow to betray his thoughts, for he could hear Bronn laugh. 

“What did I tell you? And not hard on the eyes either. But don’t let that pretty face fool you, bub. She’s a maneater, not afraid of anybody. Had a few run-ins with her previous security detail, seems the guys didn’t like her tone.” Sandor looked up at Bronn as an indication to further explain.

His friend continued, “If truth be told, she’s no different than any other male politician I’ve ever had the pleasure of selling my services to. But some men don’t take kindly when that talk comes from the fairer sex.”

A laugh emanated from Sandor’s throat, “That shit never bothered me much, as long as they put their money where their mouth is.”

“You always liked headstrong women Sandor, I’ll give ya that.” They smiled a moment at one another and Sandor had the sense Bronn’s anger was dissipating. “That’s cause you got a big cock, man. There’s an unflinching confidence that comes with a dong like yours. You know most men are sensitive about who orders them around. Fuck, you probably know better than most,  _ Captain _ .” The joke was made and the air instantly got lighter. Sandor leafed through the thick file, knowing it would take the entire day to familiarize himself with Lady Sansa Stark. 

“Take the job, Sandor, escort a pretty girl around the capital, make sure she doesn’t die, make some money for the both of us, and that’s that. You said it yourself, you’re overqualified for this. So what? Any attacker’ll see that ugly mug of yours and run the opposite direction.” They both chuckled at that joke, “Besides, it’ll ease you back into normal life again, be a good sanity check before more interesting contracts come along.”

Sandor nodded, “I’ll need some suits, and shirts.”

“Don’t forget a tie,” his friend interjected.

Sandor shook his head. “No ties.”

“You are one stubburn son-of-a-bitch. Fine, for now. Go to the tailor and get yourself five suits, here’s the address.” Sandor took the business card of a place right around the corner. They were fast, so he’d be in and out with some suits in a couple of hours,  _ Enough time to read through this in the park.  _

After his fitting, Sandor walked to the business park across the street to find some solace. There wasn’t any, not in the way he had grown used to in the quiet of his little house. So he had to make due with what he could. Watching the closed circuit cameras with interest, Sandor spied a spot in the park that was in a literal blind spot. Looking around, he settled on the bench, his back to a building with no windows. 

_ Sansa Stark of Winterfell, twenty-five, elected to her seat in Parliament two years ago upon the death of her older brother Robb Stark.  _ Sandor scanned the page down a bit,  _ Parents--Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn Stark, killed along with three of her siblings in a car accident. Deer in the road as possible reason for swerving. Coroner's Report says dead on impact. Lady Sansa and Lord Robb Stark were at a mutual friend’s house at the time. They were ten and nine years old. _

_ Bloody hell,  _ Sandor thought.  _ Pretty little rich girl with everything in her favor, wakes up and finds out everybody who ever loved her is gone. No wonder she’s full of piss and vinegar, how else should she be?  _ Sandor sat back and ran his fingers through his beard. 

Sandor had not known her father, Lord Stark, personally, but he had shaken his hand before. Wolf Team 6 had been founded by an ancestor of hers, some hundred and fifty years ago. So her family always had an interest in the unit,  _ Which explains why she was looking for somebody like me.  _ Her father had seemed like a good man, honest much like Brienne and the exact opposite of her associate Lord Baelish. 

Pausing briefly Sandor wondered what the nature of their relationship was. Of course he was her Chief of Staff, responsible for ensuring her success in the political jungle known as King’s Landing. It just seemed odd that they would team up. Baelish was a southerner by her standards, and though he might be well connected, what was she gaining by maintaining their relationship?

_ Known associates. Harry Hardyng, boyfriend.  _ Sandor jolted from his seat at that revelation.  _ The movie star and playboy?  _ Hardyng was one of those guys Sandor considered a total idiot. Sure, he was famous, rich, and far better looking than Sandor could ever be. But he was douschy as fuck, his movies always horrible representations of the real thing. 

As a matter of fact, the blonde twat had starred in a movie on Wolf Team 6’s mission to assassinate the Mad King before he destroyed the city. If Sandor remembered correctly, he shot the old Targaryan coot in the head and said something like, “For King and Country, motherfucker.” It was some bullshit that Sandor wouldn’t have said, nor had he when he’d identified the old bugger and pulled the trigger.  _ More like hasta la vista douche-bag, _ Sandor chuckled for he had said nothing, simply finished his job and moved on.

_ Lord Petyre Baelish, Chief of Staff. Career political advisor and childhood friend of Lady Catelyn Stark.  _ It was clear that Brienne had put this together, Baelish would never have chosen such a picture. It had been taken perhaps twenty years ago, his little stick arm wrapped around the waist of Sansa’s mother. A good looking woman, her daughter certainly took after her--seemed Baelish shared his observations. He was clinging to her like he’d caught a damned golden goose.

_ Hands in everything, that much is obvious. Dealings in whorehouses all over King’s Landing, surely how he and Bronn became associated.  _ Sandor laughed at the thought, knowing how easy it was to get info out of his friend, if he were plied with women and drink.  _ Baelish knows things, it's his business to know things and not through the approved channels.  _ That made him a dangerous man.

_ Brienne of Tarth, security detail. Military training on Tarth and Dragonstone, served with distinction against the IronBorn.  _ Sandor’s eyes shifted over the file, his eye looking at a young woman he barely recognized. She was smiling, laughing, and even kidding around in her fatigues.  _ Carefree,  _ he thought. Then his eye caught something that put Lady Brienne into perspective for him.  _ She was head of the military detail for Renly Baratheon. There when he was assassinated and had been held in the brig under suspicion of having carried it out herself. Acquitted on all charges but dishonorably discharged from the military.  _ Sandor let out a slight whistle from his lips.  _ That’ll make you bitter, especially if it wasn’t you.  _

Sandor had protected dignitaries in his special forces role. He knew intimately the relationship you had with your principal. It was professional, but it was also deeply personal--you had pledged to die for this person for fuck’s sake. In its own way a more intimate relationship than marriage, that was the crux of Sandor’s reluctance on this job after all.

He looked back down at the pages,  _ It came out she was in love with the fucker. Shit. Lady Caetlyn Stark took her in as her personal guard, cleaned her up...that’s why she’s so loyal to the Starks. Why she’s so emotional about Lady Sansa. _

Exhaling, Sandor knew there was no other way to cut it. He was about to step knee deep into some shit; shit that had been going on since before the Lady Stark was even born. There was no way to know what it would be, or how that shit would smell, but Sandor listened to his gut. And his gut told him there was something nefarious going on. If it hadn’t been his gut, it would have been the pages and pages of threats on the life of Lady Stark that had been followed up by the police. 

People following her, a list of names of bloggers who preached hate messages against her, Targarian royalists who had mentioned her or Baratheon loyalists who spoke of her breaking up the Seven Kingdoms. The list went on, and on, and on. 

Sandor flipped back to his principal’s picture,  _ Sad little rich girl. They all hate you, but do they hate you enough to hurt you?  _ He ran his finger over her face,  _ What do you think? Ready to see this through together? _

With that his cell vibrated in his jacket pocket, his suits were ready. 


	3. The Steel Maiden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor meets his principal for the first time and passes a test he didn't even know he was taking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am stealing so much from British politics at the moment, even this title is fashioned after it. :-)
> 
> I'm leaving today for a 3 week vacation (very badly needed). So I wanted to post this knowing that the story might not move forward over the holidays. 
> 
> I am bringing my small ipad and keyboard with me, so maybe I can refine chapters 4 and 5, as well as add to the story by then. 
> 
> But consider this my Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and Wishing you all the best for the new year chapter ;-)
> 
> Thanks so much to Teakturn and BailyBlue for looking over this story and giving me some food for thought!

#  Chapter 3: The Steel Maiden

“You’re late, Clegane,” Brienne’s voice rang in Sandor’s ear with that sort of high pitched nervousness he had suspected it would have.  _ She wants everything to be perfect, when, in fact, nothing ever is.  _ He hadn’t meant to be late for his first day on the job, even figured in the traffic, but the fates had conspired against him.  _ Tomorrow I’ll use my motorbike. _

Simply acknowledging his violation of her draconian time expectations, Sandor took the earpiece she handed him and twisted it so the wire would go toward the back of his ear, down his back and into the receiver clipped into his belt near his tailbone. 

She handed him his side arm too, a .50 calibre Desert Eagle,  _ Nice.  _ Sandor dropped the magazine as they walked and examined the weapon. He could see the surprise on her face as he did so, as if he didn’t trust she was handing him a loaded weapon.  _ Full magazine and one in the chamber,  _ Sandor grinned. 

“Old habits die hard,” he said dismissively. 

That was the first rule of special ops, making sure your gun was loaded and functional no matter who handed it to you. Sandor put the weapon in the shoulder holster under his suit jacket and followed his tall blonde companion down the hallway of the Baratheon Building. She was walking at a hefty pace, one that had even him moving his feet a little quicker behind her.

“You’re lucky, her meeting at the permit office is running overtime.” Sandor smirked at Brienne’s iron tone. Admittedly he had only read the file on her Ladyship once, but given her longtime bodyguard’s tone it seemed as if she were incredibly unforgiving. With that in mind, he picked up the pace, even if he found it a bit over the top. In the end, Sandor was happy he did, for they stood not two minutes before the doors to the permit office burst open with Lady Sansa and her entourage.

There was a moment of complete shock as Sandor’s eyes took the young lady of Winterfell in. The pictures in her file did not do her one bit of justice, she was even more captivating in real life. Though Sandor had pondered what she would be like in person, he had not been truly ready for the ravishing woman nearing him. 

Her red hair was long and flowy, the curls she had worked so hard for in the morning had already begun to fall in lushious rounds near her breasts. The humidity of a King’s Landing summer did a number on anything a woman tried to do with her hair, but on her, it looked as though she’d done it on purpose. 

Her eyes were a piercing blue, their color cold, but not able to extinguish the fire that lay within their depths. Sandor was certain she could have a temper, if not just simply based on her defiant posture and current facial expression.  _ She certainly gave some poor sap the business in that permit office,  _ he smirked to himself, observing the glare still present in her eye and the angry flush on her cheeks.

Then there was her figure. Sandor did his best not to drool as his eyes did a cursory sweep. Sansa Stark was tall, the stiletto pumps she wore only accentuating her natural stature. The extra six inches they gave her made their eyes level -- and gave the sexy bitch legs for days. Her black pencil skirt was tight to her body, accentuating her upper legs and waist. A soft white silk blouse with ruffles and a grey ribbon made her look more sexy secretary than hardcore member of parliment--but Sandor wouldn’t be fooled. It was her walk and how she carried herself, with an importance and a confidence that spoke of her rank and status.

_ I think I’m in love,  _ he joked to himself as he cleared his throat, remembering what Bronn had mentioned about her being a man eater. Sandor knew he would have to be perfect, the consummate professional and gentleman if he was going to stay in her Ladyship’s good graces.

“My Lady,” Brienne began, “This is Sandor Clegane the new head of your security detail and personal bodyguard.” 

Sandor watched her assess him with a careful, yet critical eye. If she was in politics surely she knew how to size a man up, use his weaknesses to her advantage, tear him to shreds with her words. Her emotionless stare made him feel naked, as if she were trying to peer past his clothing right into his soul. Sandor shivered imperceptibly under her gaze, felt goosebumps raise unbid across his skin. This woman did something to him, saw him in a way others didn’t--made him feel in a way he was unaccustomed to.

That was why their relationship had to be simple, he would show her nothing be the perfect soldier. It was all he needed to be to her.  _ It’s all I ever will be to her,  _ Sandor stiffened his resolve.

“Your tie.” She said after giving him a good twice over. 

“Ma’am?” Sandor answered, not sure he had heard her properly. 

“You seem to have forgotten your tie,” she gave him a knowing grin, her voice stern. “Don’t worry, Lord Baelish always keeps an extra on him. Petyr, your tie please.” 

Her Chief of Staff pushed from the middle of the group of people with an evil smirk on his face, somehow both happy Sandor had taken the job and amused that she was ripping him a new one about an article of clothing that he hated. Sandor fought to maintain a neutral expression.

Sandor didn’t like the way Lord Baelish looked at Lady Stark--as if she were a particularly juicy piece of meat. It was the look of a predator who hadn’t eaten in days, who was just trying to find the right moment to strike. It aroused Sandor’s protective instincts, instincts that had never failed him in the past. 

“Immediately, my Lady.” Baelish loosened the pink and purple paisley silk tie from his neck and handed it over to Sandor. “You can keep it.” The condescending smirk on the little man’s face made Sandor’s blood pressure peak. It was as if he owned no ties of his own, which was true--but that wasn’t the measure of a man, not by far.

Not in a place to argue, Sandor took the horrific accessory without hesitation and put it around his neck, feeling it clamp uncomfortably around his throat as he adjusted the knot. He didn't want to admit it fit surprisingly well with his suit, the Lady Stark’s eyes said all of that for him. One side of her lips pulled into what might have been considered a grin. 

Without warning she began to walk past him at speed, and Sandor immediately followed on her right, scanning the building and the few people they came across. “As I’m sure you’re already aware, Clegane, I’m late. It’s 8:30am and I’m due to give a speech in Parliament at 9am. If I miss my slot, I miss my chance to state my party’s position on various legislative topics,” she said it in such a way that made Sandor believe somebody in the permit office had done it on purpose.  _ Typical capital city politics.  _

_ “ _ In the best of conditions we’ll need forty minuets to get there. So you can imagine my desire to continue without any further delays,” she was a straight talker, only allowing her annoyance at the current situation to show through, nothing more.  _ She’s pure steel,  _ Sandor realized.

“Yes, ma'am. Don’t worry ma'am, I’ll get you there on time.” Sandor answered her as if she were his commanding officer, and could see she liked it. They stopped at her Mercedes parked outside of the building and Sandor opened the door.

The smile on her face was one that indicated she didn’t believe him, but it was still somehow pleasant. “Welcome aboard, Clegane.”

She stepped into the car, her pert little ass just as good as his imagination had made it. He shut the door and engaged his ear piece, which he had forgotten to do before. Then realized he didn't have a code name for her. “Uhh, Little Bird is loaded and ready to be moved.”

“Okay big guy, all that time to ogle this amazing creature and Little Bird was all you could think of? Bloody tosser!” Bronn’s voice came through the earpiece on a different channel. Sandor knew he’d be listening in,  _ Just like old times.  _

Brienne indicated an affirmative as Sandor slid into front passenger side of the car. Sandor situated himself quickly, looking at his principal through the rearview mirror. She was reviewing her speech, engrossed in some point she was mouthing to herself.

“You’d better buckle up, ma’am. It’s gonna be a bumpy ride.” Her eyes met his with what he thought was indignation, but then they softened, and she did as she was told. 

Brienne confirmed she was in the other car with the rest of Sansa’s staff, and Sandor gave the signal to leave. “Take a right on 5th, then book it to Dragonstone Boulevard, when you reach 32nd Street take a left. Floor it.” 

The driver set off at a maddening pace, seemingly surprised at Sandor’s knowledge of the city.  _ If you wanna kill a madman, you have to know the city like the back of your hand.  _ In truth, Sandor could have driven through the city blindfolded, and he would need all of that knowledge now to get her Ladyship through the capital in rush hour traffic.

“At the stoplight swerve left, then a right on Stark Road,” he continued.

“But that’s a one way street!” The driver protested.

“Just do it,” Sandor ordered through gritted teeth, “we’ll only go down Stark Road a block, then I want you to take a left on 45th Street and hit the gas as hard as you can.” A moment passed before the driver realized that this crazy route they were taking, which certainly broke every traffic rule the good King had ever made, might actually get around the bulk of traffic and get Lady Stark to the Parliament building on time. The mayhem of rush hour was in full swing, honking, yelling, and impolite gestures thrown in the direction of the dark windowed black Mercedes. 

Sandor checked in the rearview mirror. Her Ladyship was sliding a little from side to side on the leather seating, but seemed to be too engrossed in her speech to care.  _ At least she’s not skittish _ , Sandor mused as he held on to the door panel for support, the driver honking his horn and swerved to miss a car as he took that hard left onto the final street. 

Sandor stole a peek at his watch,  _ 8:50 am and we’re just about to pull in.  _

Maintaining his hard exterior, Sandor managed an internal smile. There was nothing like exceeding expectations, particularly with type A personalities. 

The car came to a screeching halt in front of the parliament building. Sandor’s eyes were assessing the crowd from his seat in the car, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t have any time for the reporters,” Lady Sansa whispered. His shoulder felt warm where her hand had been, though Sandor knew it wasn’t possible.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sandor answered, straightening his suit jacket. “Little Bird has landed, estimated time to chambers, five minutes.” An affirmative came from the other end, and Sandor exited the car to a crowd of reporters and photographers jostling for position. 

“Stand back!” Sandor ordered. The men and women of the press core were so shocked by this size and presence that they could do nothing else than make a lane for the Lady Stark.  _ Humpf, gravitas indeed,  _ Sandor thought as he took one final security sweep of the crowd before opening the door. 

There was a small moment as she was stepping out of the car of almost complete silence, that moment before a storm hits. Sandor knew it well. In urban warfare it was the most common, this kind of unnatural quiet because something was about to happen and everybody knew it except for you. But they weren’t fighting guerillas door-to-door, they were pushing through overly curious journalists. 

Sandor blinked to make sure he was in the moment, then began to lead Lady Stark through the crowd. Flashes went off, and some of the journalists were pushing their way as close to her as they dare.

“What will you talk about, my Lady?” Came a voice. Another shot a more provocative question, “What makes you think you’ll actually gain any traction today in the Parliament?” 

One camera man got too close, and Sandor pushed him back by grabbing the front of his big lense in his hand and shoving him. There weren't many who would challenge him, even among the most elite soldiers. For a lowly cameraman just trying to get the best shot of the day, they tended to get the message really quickly. Everybody took a healthy step back after that one. He wasn’t sure if he saw Lady Stark smirk devilishly as he pushed the man back, if she had, her expression changed quickly, for it wasn’t there now.

They walked through the crowd, into the parliament building and finally to the door of the chambers where its members were currently seated. Sandor put his fingers on the door handle and waited. There was nobody else around them, the halls were strangely empty considering it was a working day for the legislators. He saw the Lady Stark breath a moment and swallow hard. 

_ She’s nervous,  _ he thought, though his expression remained neutral.  _ That final pep talk before battle _ , Sandor also knew that well. Surely she had some churning in her gut, that uneasy feeling that you had in your brain, then dropped unexpectedly into the pit of your stomach. There was nothing to do about it but go to war, use the adrenaline rush to your advantage, and come out on top. That rush was the sweetest thing there was, the power that came with it, the satisfaction. 

Their eyes met, sharing this oddly intimate moment for a beat before she nodded her head. Lady Stark put on her mask of indifference, rolling her shoulders back. Sandor opened the door and watched her as she walked through, that perfect bum swaying side to side. “She’s in.” He said over his ear piece.

Sandor too exhaled, not realizing he was holding his own breath. It was a sort of blessing to be standing alone outside of the parliament chambers. It was his first day on the job after all, and he didn’t want to come off as overwhelmed or incompetant. As a matter of fact, it seemed there was a little more action than he had been expecting,  _ Perhaps Bronn is right. Easy money and a way to get back into the swing of things again.  _

Instinctively, his mind went back to Sansa Stark. Any man who treated her like the rosy cheeked maiden she looked like would be in for a surprise. For though her skin was as white as porcelain, it wasn’t hard to see she had nerves of steel.  _ The Steel Maiden,  _ Sandor chuckled to himself. He didn’t have time to ponder this idea for long though, as some moments later Brienne and the rest of Sansa’s staff came barreling through the halls. Lord Baelish didn’t even have the chance to throw him a nasty stare as everybody rushed into the session some minutes late. 

He and Brienne stood outside the chamber doors in silence for a moment before she spoke.“She likes you,” Brienne said, looking down the hallway for anything out of place. They were alone, the hall completely empty.

“You call that liking?” He answered sarcastically. Sandor wasn’t quite sure what that had been between him and the Lady Stark, but he would have considered it professional and to the point. Liking was the farthest from his mind, tolerating seemed more like it.

“Normally she would have challenged your orders in the car, but she didn’t. That means she trusts you. Suffering your lack of tie with a smile means she finds something charming about you.” Brienne sounded almost jealous, but Sandor knew it was really disbelief. As if an old beat up dog like him could be charming in the eyes of such a woman. If he had to be honest with himself, he couldn’t quite believe it either.

He said nothing, preferring to savor the moment in some weird way. He wasn’t quite sure how he would savor it, but he would try.

“You’ve passed the test, Clegane. Welcome to her Ladyship’s Secret Service,” Brienne said, extending her hand to Sandor stiffly. She had a smile this time, and he was pleased to see she had accepted him. They would be working together after all, and needed to understand one another well. Sandor shook her hand, feeling the anxiety of commitment setting in.

  
  


* * *

Sandor’s first day on the job had been a long one. It was well after dark when they arrived at Lady Stark’s apartment in an upscale neighborhood of King’s Landing. As was his duty, Sandor escorted her to the door, opening it and stepping inside. She soon followed, her keys making a soft clang as they landed in a dish near the entrance.

Disarming the security system, Sandor took a moment to scan the living room. He was to clear the apartment before leaving her there alone that night. Ever since it was broken into, Bronn had insisted that somebody both install the alarm and sweep the place. Sandor saw no fault in this protocol, it was better to be overly cautious in such situations.

It was a nice apartment, furnished comfortably, but functionally. Lady Stark didn’t seem to be the type to be over luxurious, it would be against her Northern sensitiblites. There was nothing unusual about how she had decorated the place, other than it was obvious it was her apartment in the city while she was legislating. It wasn’t her home. There were no overly personal effects in the living room or small dining area that adjoined an open kitchen. Most people kept something on their walls or tables to remember loved ones, but she didn’t,  _ Not here anyway. _

Sandor made a move toward the east facing room, “Is this really necessary?” he heard her voice from behind him. 

Sandor turned, she had already taken her pumps off, allowing her stocking covered feet a reprieve on the cold tile of the kitchen. There was something fascinating about a woman’s stocking covered feet that Sandor couldn’t describe. Perhaps it was because he knew how soft they felt over a woman’s already delicate skin, perhaps it was the next stage of undress in the many layers of clothing women enveloped themselves in. It was enticing if Sandor had to be honest, knowing the offer of a foot massage from a hard day might lead to something more, some sexual intimacy he would probably have to forever dream about. 

Catching himself, Sandor raised his eyes to her own. She had an eyebrow lifted, as if she wanted to negotiate whether he should look through her apartment or not. That might work with some men, but not with him.

“A new procedure, ma’am.” Sandor answered, “After the break-in last week, we have reason to believe that somebody might try to ambush you at home.” She was uncomfortable, her eyes flickering momentarily to the west door then back. Sandor would check this last, for surely it was the reason for her apprehension.

Seeing she had no room to argue, or finding that it wouldn’t get her very far, she waved her hand in agreement. Sandor could hear the fridge door open and the cork pop off an already opened bottle of wine. Seemed she was going to make herself cozy while he did his job.

Returning his focus to the task at hand, Sandor evaluated the hallway looking for any sign of a disturbance. The guest bathroom held little of interest, and the extra bedroom was sparsely furnished, the windows secured. The closet was empty, save for a few winter jackets, and the windows were securely closed. “East room, living room clear,” he reported over his earpiece.

Her study was a bit more interesting. Its shelves were stocked full of books ranging from legal and historical texts to books of Westerosi myths and fairytales. She hadn’t struck Sandor as the type of woman who would read such tales, as they often focused on the helpless damsel in distress being rescued by the fierce warrior. It seemed totally against her own sensibilities.  _ But then again,who knows? _

There was a computer there too, with a picture on the desk of her and her boyfriend Hardyng.  _ He’s trying too hard,  _ Sandor thought as his discerning eye noted the awkward curve of the man’s lips into a smile. It was in stark contrast to the expression of her Ladyship next to him, which seemed natural and at ease. Checking the window, and quickly opening the closet door, Sandor cleared the room.

Crossing back through the living room, Sandor observed Lady Stark standing in the open kitchen, her heels dangling from one hand and a glass of wine in the other, seemingly annoyed at having him go through her house. He would not, however, let that deter him. All Sandor could do was grin to himself,  _ She’ll get used to it, she has to.  _

She was his principal, and whether she knew it or not, he was going to be a witness to nearly everything she did until he was no longer in her service. Sandor had known this from other protection details he had done while in the service of the crown. What he also knew was that the principals often didn’t understand the need for this closeness until an attempt on their life had already been made.  _ We’re still in the getting-to-know-you phase.  _ There would come a time when she wouldn’t even know he was there, saying and doing things as if she were alone. That was when true trust was achieved, all one had to do was be patient.

Making his way into her bedroom, Sandor knew immediately that this was her inner sanctum. If the apartment could have been described as having a lack of personal effects, her bedroom was the opposite. Like stepping into a completely different world. On the dresser there were some family photos. Snapshots of happier times where a much younger Lady Stark was smiling with one tooth missing in the front along with her parents and siblings.  _ A holiday somewhere in Dorne _ , Sandor concluded, given the beach clothing they were all obviously wearing. 

Then there was a picture of just her and her older brother, Robb. It was probably taken not all that long ago, for Sansa looked almost the same as now. They were hugging, and Sandor detected a closeness to one another that could only be born through tragedy.  _ It’s hard to be alone in the world, especially when you can remember a completely different life. _

Turning his eyes from the dresser, Sandor swept the room. There were various stuffed animals and trinkets one would associate more with a teenager than a member of parliament, but it gave the room a warm, more human feel. It made Sandor curious as to what kind of a woman Sansa Stark truly was. The Steel Maiden was becoming more complex and interesting by the moment. Her closet was cleared, and her bathroom was also cleared. On the way to the door, Sandor noticed something under her bed sheets that was suspicious. Getting down on one knee he looked under the bed to find nothing, then slowly pulled back the covers. 

What he found, put a wide grin on his face,  _ Seems Hardyng can’t get the job done properly.  _ Stuffed under the covers was a rather large vibrator with rabbit ear clit ticklers. Sandor didn’t want to stop the flow of images flooding his brain of her Ladyship pleasuring herself with a large penis substitute. Her strict exterior juxtaposed with the wild fantasies Sandor could cook up of her little maiden cheeks filling with color while she fucked herself with a massive vibrator was too much. Far too much. Sandor was getting hard just thinking about it.

He couldn’t blame her for needing something to keep herself satisfied, surely she and her boyfriend didn’t see much of one another given the nature of their jobs. But what Sandor also knew was that women went for something they couldn’t have when buying sex toys, and this vibrator was long and thick -- probably the exact opposite of what Harry was packing. 

A sheepish grin broke across his marred face. It was almost as long as Sandor’s own cock but not quite as wide, which made him grin all the more, his suit pants growing tighter in the crotch. Sandor liked a woman who enjoyed sex, he even loved using toys with them. There were few things sweeter than seeing a woman going crazy on a vibrator and knowing she was warmed up for you, ready and almost begging to feel warm flesh inside of her.

Sandor had to fight to keep his mind off of that as he threw the covers back over the toy, checked the windows of her bedroom and started walking back out into the living room.

“West room is clear.” He adjusted his semi-hard cock just before leaving the room.

Their eyes met and Sandor knew instantly Sandor could see her cheeks reden slightly.  _ That’s what she was worried about _ . He was just happy his suit jacket covered enough of his pants so as not to make his awkward half erection visible.  _ Think of Bronn naked for fuck’s sake, anything but her. _

Exhaling, Sandor spoke, “All clear, ma’am.”

“Oh what a relief,” she answered, if not somewhat sarcastically, “So I suppose you’ll be on your way then?”

“Yes, ma’am. Good evening, ma’am. See you in the morning.” He looked her straight in the eyes and she always returned his stare. For a man like Sandor with this size and a-typical looks it was uncommon for people not to make a face or turn away. Lady Stark’s stare was unflinching and unafraid, free of judgement or even pity. He wasn’t sure if it made him comfortable or uncomfortable.

“Good night, Clegane.” She answered him, her tone indicating he needed to get out of her apartment as soon as possible.

Rearming the alarm system, Sandor exited the house, turning to lock the door. His eyes took her in one last time, more like snuck a look at her before the door latched into place. Keeping that final image in his mind, Sandor made his way back to the car where Brienne was waiting for him. 

“You survived,” she observed in that deadpan way that made Sandor wonder if she was taking the piss--though he couldn’t really be sure.

Sandor merely nodded, realizing he too was exhausted to say more than absolutely necessary.

“Where to? I’ll drop you off at your car.” Sandor indicated the direction and they drove the nearly empty streets of King’s Landing in silence. 

  
  



	4. Not Your Babe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa reflects on recent events and her new bodyguard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been a proper struggle to get this online given my internet connection in Thailand, but otherwise happy new year!!!!
> 
> A special thanks to Bailey and Teakturn for giving this one a good once over and making sure I keep my English honest.
> 
> I don't know about you, but the end of this chapter pulls on personal experience.... 😉😉

#  Chapter 4: Not Your Babe

The moment her front door was locked, Sansa dropped her heels on the tile floor. Her wine glass in her right hand, she snatched the bottle from the fridge with her left and moved toward the couch. She sighed as she plopped down, exhausted from the stress of her job. Sansa drank deep from her glass and put her aching feet on the plush cushions. 

Today had been long, much longer than she would have liked. The highlight, if one could put it in such terms, had been the hours of debate in parliament over budget allocations, addendums to bills and, of course, a truncated discussion on northern freedom. She rolled her eyes. Sansa knew she stood very much alone on this matter; the coalitions she had carefully built for many of her initiatives didn’t support her in this pursuit. But she was used to being alone,  _ It suits me. The Lone Wolf, the last of my kind,  _ she took a sip of wine.

Of course holding members of parliament across Westeros to account on their voting records wasn’t making her any friends, but it was giving her a bargaining chip in the game. Sansa knew very well what she was doing, knew that being a thorn in the side of the establishment would make her one of the most loathed women on the island. However, playing hard ball was bringing her a step closer to her true goal.  _ I’m closer to getting the investigation into your murder reopened, Robb. For mother and father as well, I’m one step closer to the truth.  _

Petyr had called it a trivial pursuit, having the official investigations into the deaths of her family members reopened. He’d told her to leave it; that the best investigators in the land had ruled out foul play in the deaths of her parents and siblings. Her advisor had told her she was chasing ghosts, a life that she could never have again. Thinking about it even now gave her a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

He had, on several occasions, reminded her that one crazy man murdering her brother didn’t mean there was a conspiracy against the Starks or the North. Though she would have none of it, she had smiled and nodded at Lord Baelish. Sansa knew just the right smile, something between innocent and flirtatious, to have him drop his rants. Yet she could not be really sure who was manipulating whom. During this particular conversation he had urged her to trust him, almost begged her to.

Sansa exhaled at the thought. She did trust Petyr, as her mother had trusted him and yet, she couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable with him at times. His manners were somewhat outdated, often feeling the need to kiss her hand and show her old chivalric values when they were no longer called for. There was no denying he was thrusting her into the limelight, giving her cause to go after the older powers of Westeros, not only for herself but for the North. Sansa knew she benefited greatly from his tutelage and renown. 

On the other hand, she felt herself in a gilded cage. Something to be looked at but not touched, something to be brought out when the old men of Westeros needed to be poked and prodded into action then locked right back up again. Lord Baelish’s methods were both charming and constraining, _They’re_ _not me_ , _not anymore._ As a younger woman of her rank and status in society, she might have found his ways familiar and quaint. _But not now, not after all I have endured and have yet to endure._

If anything she felt as though he treated her more like his stepdaughter than like his boss. Still, for all of his odd and perhaps outdated ticks, he knew everything that was going on in the city. Lord Baelish knew everything about the personal lives of other politicians, knew what bills were coming up, and it made her an impactful and powerful member of parliament for sure. It wasn’t correct to say he had made her a force to be reckoned with, but he had certainly put her on the fast track.  _ Yet he claims he wants nothing in return. _

Somehow it was just that, he could give her anything and yet, he could not give her an open investigation into the deaths of her family. It had never sat right with her, his excuses always just a little off. That was why she was conducting her own inquiry behind his back. It was a slow, tedious process but it kept her busy, particularly on her many lonely nights in King’s Landing.  _ The capital is no place for a Stark,  _ she joked to herself feeling alone despite the three million people around her.

Thinking back to the events of last week, it had been a surprise to see her apartment turned upside down, the words often used by those on social media to describe her scrawled on the walls. What had perhaps been even more of a surprise was the simple fact that almost nothing had been stolen other than a bit of cash that had been laying around. She had some valuable things in the apartment, jewelry, a stereo, and TV for example. Yet they had ripped up her entire apartment as if they were looking for something specific. Her office had been turned upside down, her computer searched, as if the bits of evidence she was gathering on her family’s deaths were what they really sought.

_ It would have been stupid to leave those documents in my own home, _ Sansa smirked.  _ My parliamentary office under lock, key and 24 hour guard is so much better _ . She had found something out of particular interest just a day or two before he break in. New evidence that could lead to the case of her parents being reexamined by police.  _ An abnormally high level of mild sedative was found in the blood of both my parents. The original coroner had written it off as produced by their corpses after death.  _ Sansa sighed, it had been a lucky break to have had the evidence seized and reexamined by two independent experts. They had both agreed that this substance can be produced spontaneously post mortem, but that the levels were much higher than would be expected. 

It meant they had been drugged, that somebody had wanted them dead. It meant that with a little more time, she might uncover more evidence that pointed to foul play. It meant that the break-in last week had not just been by chance.  _ Somebody doesn’t want the case reopened. Somebody wants to scare me into submission.  _ She narrowed her eyes,  _ Well, they don’t know who they’re dealing with. I’m a Stark and I won’t be spooked.  _

Sansa smiled,  _ Perhaps you’re just being silly,  _ she reminded herself. Seeing conspiracy where there is none. Yet she could not shake this feeling that she was being watched, followed, spied upon. That had been the main reason she had agreed to Brienne looking into a bigger protection detail, one from an independent agency not tied to the government or Lord Baelish.

Sansa, however, knew better than to go against Petyr. She was still learning, still understanding how the politics of the capital played out.  _ I need him on my side.  _

The game of thrones was cut throat, chauvinistic, and had left a scar on her as a person and her family as a whole. She had never wanted to be a politician. If truth be told she had wanted to be a doctor, help people improve their lives through science. When Robb had been murdered however, she broke off her studies to follow in the footsteps of her father and brother. 

Two years in King’s Landing had changed Sansa. She had become hard as stone, aggressive, and unyielding. There was a fire in her that she never knew she possessed. A strength and resilience which worked well in this environment. Yet there was no denying how tired it made her. 

She had become so accustomed to wearing a mask, that she struggled at times to remember who she really was. 

Sansa wore one face to the public and her political opponents. A hard steel exterior of invulnerability. To them she was a decision maker, a leader, somebody who took the bull by the horns in order to get things done.Then there was, what she thought of as, her own face. The face of a young woman who had been brought up to value those she loved above all else. A warm, friendly, whimsical person who loved old stories of knights and fair ladies, who enjoyed daydreaming about nothing in particular. 

These two sides of her were at war with one another. She could feel them rage within her, pushing and pulling her emotions in ways she could have never predicted. Her soul was a battle ground where who she needed to be and who she wanted to be could not coexist—even if she had wanted them to. This duality was eating her up inside, to the point where she often felt lost and alone, out of balance for lack of a better word.

She thought she had found a way to balance her two selves with Harry; that she could be herself around him without worry—but that was proving to be more complicated than she had wanted.

Her mind then went unbid to Clegane, and she couldn’t suppress a sheepish grin. He had something about him that put her in a good mood, reminded her of happier times--though she couldn’t say what exactly.  _ Aside from that he was just one huge hunk of man _ , if she had to put it in a baser tongue. Sansa caught herself giggling a bit at her girlish reaction to his muscular physique.  _ As if you’ve never seen muscles before,  _ she scolded herself. 

_ But not like these, they even look amazing under his suit jacket,  _ came the little voice inside her head. “You’re incorrigible,” she whispered to her innervoice, as she wondered whether his chest was shaved like some gym jocks she knew, or covered in a thick blanket of hair. 

_ I hope it’s the latter,  _ her naughty voice chimed in. Sansa shook her head at her own inner workings. He was a normal man, like any other. She had to remember that, because they were going to be spending a lot of time in each other’s presence and it would be unbecoming for her to have a crush on her hired muscle, particularly as she already had a boyfriend.

Her mind went back to Harry. When she had met him some years back she remembered having a similar enthatuation with his form. Of course she had grown to like other things about him, but that had been the essence of her initial attraction. Tall and muscular, somebody to cuddle up to on the cold winter nights of her homeland.  _ Well look how that ended up,  _ her innervoice pointed out. Sansa’s eyes roamed around her empty apartment.

Harry and Clegane were just cut from a different mold. Harry couldn’t kill a spider, much less win a fistfight, despite the tough guy he always played in movies. This had never bothered Sansa in the least. They were no longer in the era of knights and fair ladies, where strength and aggression won the day. Aside from that, Sansa had enjoyed the juxtaposition of Harry’s tough guy exterior and his gentler nature. That hadn’t saved her from his flaiker personality traits’, he was unreliable, and often on-set. In short, he was by no means the kind of man Clegane seemed to be. Strong, self assured, and apparently a military man of the highest order. His physique was born out of necessity to be the biggest, baddest guy on the battlefield,  _ To survive. Not from hours in the gym and taking diuretics to make yourself look bigger for a role. _

Remembering she had some files on her coffee table, Sansa sat up and grabbed them before settling back down in her overstuffed couch. Of course she had skimmed through the dossiers of her possible bodyguards before allowing Brienne and Petyr to go through with the process of choosing a new head of security, but she hadn’t really looked. Sansa trusted them, and had not really had the time to flip through endless files of men who would agree via contract to put her own safety above their own. Now, she could not resist the sudden impulse to learn more about the man who was watching over her.

Sansa leafed through the files while she thought of Brienne. The break-in had scared her, had brought up feelings connected with Renly’s death that her most trusted confidant could not suppress. Sansa did her best to calm her long time friend, but, perhaps much to her credit, Brienne had insisted they find somebody with more experience.

In that moment she found Clegane’s file stuffed between others.

_ Captain First Class, Wolf Team 6.  _ Sansa lifted an eyebrow and smirked to herself nestling even deeper into her couch, as if she were reading an engrossing mystery novel. It made him all the more interesting to know that he was in the elite of the elite, probably one of the best soldiers in Westeros. It wasn’t so hard to notice that about him when she thought about it. It was the way he stood so upright, the way he moved, and the way his smoky eyes were always on high alert. She knew how his unit was trained, and knew he suffered much to reach what he had. 

_ His career is hugely redacted, by the Gods what did this man do?  _ It was like most of his career was a state secret. A delectable one that made her all the more curious about the huge man with stone grey eyes who was in charge of her protection.

_ Like the stones of Winterfell castle on a damp fall day,  _ they reminded her of home with their unusual color and uncomfortable depth. Sandor Clegane was a hard man, with an iron exterior even colder than her own--yet while they shared this, Sansa knew they came from very different worlds.  _ Too different to be having such illicit thoughts about him like I am now. _

Skipping over the pages of black lines with only “ands”, “its”, and “buts” legible, Sansa found some pictures stuffed into the back of the file. Pushing the papers to the side, she held the photos in her hand and took another sip of wine.  _ Gods he’s young here,  _ she thought turning the picture over.  _ Just as I thought, ran off to join the army at fifteen. Too young, far too young. What were you running from young man? _

Clegane was a skinny boy in this picture, dressed in some infantry formals for his intake. Uncomfortable in front of the camera for sure, the tight collar of his coat already cutting into his neck. It was clear, even from this age, that he was going to be a bruiser. His shoulders were broad, his neck already too thick for a normal dress shirt.

The scarring on his face was already old by this point, making Sansa all the more curious about how he had gotten it in the first place. There were plenty of veterans with the scars of war, but he had carried his most of his life.  _ Perhaps it’s always been war for him,  _ she mused.

There was another picture after that, one of a slightly older Sandor Clegane in his Wolf Team 6 formals, a beautiful dark grey that matched his eyes, the flag of Westeros as part of the background. Sansa stared a long while into those hypnotic eyes, trying to find the man she had met today. He was different in this picture, and it wasn’t just his clean shave and short hair, but his eyes. She would not have said they were happy but they knew where they were and why. 

Confidence in a different way than now. 

_ I prefer him with the beard,  _ Sansa found herself thinking. Southerners tended to be clean shaven, while northerners tended to grow beards -- to protect their face from the cold. On Clegane, it gave him a rogish appearance that she enjoyed. With a suit and tie, and she found the mix very attractive. 

She chuckled, remembering his lack of tie this morning. She had an image to uphold and you never knew when you might bump into the likes of the King whilst doing politics in King’s Landing, thus she always required her staff to be properly dressed. _ He’s testing the boundaries, or he really dislikes ties,  _ she smiled. Either way she had wanted to make sure he knew who was in charge. She had found, in her short time in the capital, that men needed to know who was in control, asserting your status just made it easier for them to understand how to act. Sansa had been pleased with Clegane’s reaction to her boldness.  _ If I have to suffer to look the part in these heels, then he should suffer the tightness of a simple necktie.  _

Sansa flipped quickly through some of the final pictures. One of him shaking the hand of the Mad King, the next of him shaking the hand of Robert Baratheon-- now both dead. Sansa snorted a moment as she reflected on how fleeting both life and politics were. Nothing was ever for certain, not even sitting on the Iron Throne.  _ Not even ruling the North, but I’ll chip away at them slowly if I must. _ _  
  
_

Sansa pulled the last picture from the stack and nearly dropped her wine all over her blouse. The picture was of Clegane, probably in his late twenties, shirtless in a pair of tight combat pants, overhead pressing a much younger looking Bronn from the security agency. His apparent friend was reclining on his side like a pinup, easily lifted over the big man’s head. The pair were all smiles.  _ Damn he’s got an amazing body,  _ Sansa ran a finger over the picture, taking in every bulge and ripple. His well sculpted chest, broad shoulders with large biceps, his six pack unapologetically on display. What could she say, she was a sucker for a well built man.  _ Particularly with a hairy chest like that, grrrrr!  _

Of course some of this lust feeling came from the fact that she and Harry had not seen one another in two months, their schedules had simply not permitted it.  _ Of course that’s why I’m lusting after him as if I were an animal in heat. _ It had to be, but there were very few women on this earth that would deny Sandor Clegane wasn’t the Warrior in the flesh.  _ The Old Gods would smile upon a man with such strength,  _ she told herself, as if that made it more ‘okay’ to have such an attraction to him.

_ Am I licking my lips?  _ Sansa partly scolded herself for finding her new employee so irresistible. 

Her phone rang on the counter nearly making her jump out of her skin. Sansa was almost relieved that it had. She needed to get her eyes off of Sandor Clegane. 

Jumping up Sansa grabbed her cellphone and answered, “Hello?” She knew who it was.

“Hey Babe, how’s it goin’?” Harry’s voice came over the other end and Sansa smiled. It was nice to talk to somebody who was far removed from her daily life. Though she very much wished, at times, that he was around more often. With that said, Babe wasn’t her favorite nickname, as a matter of fact Little Bird wasn’t that great either.  _ I must speak to Clegane on this one.  _

She forced a smile, despite the nicknames given to her.

“A long day again, you know different stuff, the same battles,” she detested talking about work with Harry. He wasn’t the most politically minded man, and aside from that, she needed to talk about other normal things. Sansa quickly changed the subject, “But I’m really looking forward to you coming this weekend.” 

Harry was doing a movie shoot in Dorne, and had been for the last six months. It had made things strained between them to say the least. His promise to come visit this weekend was something she looked forward to. It was going to be a time for them to reconnect, blow off some steam, and do things as a couple together. Without him around she was becoming much more defined by her job than by the people who mattered in her life. Sansa knew she was out of balance.

His exhale of breath on the other end of the line indicated something was wrong. She braced herself, “About that, Babe. I’ve got to be at a dinner with some producers and all, you know boring shit but somebody’s gotta do it.”

He was worming out of seeing her, again. A rush of emotion overtook her, equal parts outraged and lost. Sansa was a fighter, she deeply wanted to make this work with Harry--to save whatever they had once felt for one another.

“Oh,” she said without thinking. It was the same each time they tried to see one another. “How about I just go to you. I don’t mind talking to some old stuffy producers…”

“No, no, Sansa, I think it’s better….you know...not to get any politics involved.” He was uneasy saying it, but it didn’t matter to her if he was trying to be soft about it or not, it was clear he was uncomfortable with her unfavorable political stances. Though he probably couldn’t even spell political stances.

Harry could hear her gasp in astonishment on the other end and cut in before she could speak, “You know, some of the producers are Lannister loyalists and it might rub them the wrong way. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

Sansa plopped down on the sofa and allowed silence to overtake the conversation.  _ You said that last time, you say that every fucking time.  _

She didn’t want to yell and she didn’t want to cry, but she wanted to do something.  _ Like smack him right in his face _ , like plead her case for entering into a healthy political discourse, like pretending their relationship wasn’t slowly drifting away from them. Sansa’s eye hit on Clegane’s shirtless photo and she reached out a finger toward it, moving it down his chest. She could feel her sadness turn to rage, then slowly to calm. She took some breaths.

“...Sansa….Sansa! Are you even listening to me?” He was annoyed at being tuned out, but what was the point? He had already ripped her heart out of her chest  _ again _ , she had heard all that she needed to.

“Yeah I’m here, I’m just, uh, tired Harry. Perhaps I need to go to bed.” It was a lie, she needed to go beat her pillow up and spit fire actually.  _ No, just kick him square in his peach fuzz covered balls!!!  _ Inside she was screaming with nothing other than fear, anger, and embarrassment coursing through her veins.

“You do that, Babe. Hey, I love you and I miss you!” he said. As if that was going to make everything alright. As if his empty words could fix the pain she felt in her chest at his continued rejection.

_ I’m not your babe, not by a long shot.  _

Sansa said some words and they hung up. She felt so lost, so unsure as to what to do. She rarely let people in, wasn’t great with relationships, she knew this--but it didn’t even seem that Harry was trying, or cared. 

In the North, she had been brought up to sacrifice for love, that you needed to give up certain freedoms to get the stability a relationship could provide.  _ Bollocks,  _ she huffed. She had given him all that she could, had tried to compromise with Harry on other things, but had never truly been satisfied with what she had received in return. 

Sansa knew they were growing apart, she knew how politics had changed her. _ It hasn’t all been for the worst, _ she reminded herself. Part of her enjoyed taking up the struggle of those less fortunate than she was. Making a difference in people’s lives. Seeing children benefit from her hard work in government brough Sansa great joy. It did, however, wear on her. To get things done in this political world, you couldn’t just say please and expect people to help. You had to be tough, ruthless, ready for anything thrown at you. Carrying the torch for Robb, coming to this God forsaken city, away from everything she knew and everybody who loved her, had killed whatever bit of northern maiden she had in her. It was moments like this where she mourned that little girl full of love and hope.  _ Trusting,  _ Sansa closed her eyes a moment just to get her bearings.

_ I need to masterbate,  _ she realized fed up with the situation as a whole. She needed to feel good physically, a rush of endorphins to cover up her building fear of losing her relationship.  _ And to remind myself that I don’t need him to be happy.  _ She sighed, knowing it was childish to run from thinking about her problems. But she was so used to taking matters of true importance head on, she felt that the matters of her heart were inconsequential. 

Sansa’s eye went back to Clegane’s damned photo and she felt a pang of arousal in her loins. It was unusual for her to be fixated on a man like Clegane, someone so vastly different from her. They were from two different worlds. Two different people who would otherwise have never cross paths. He surely had no interest in her, his wall of indifference thick and part of his job. She knew it was highly unprofessional of her to want to run her fingers through his mess of thick chest hair, nibble his skin down his abs and use her breasts and lips to bring him to a full erection. It was immoral to want to use her vibrator and a picture of him to get herself off, but at the same time who would know?

Snatching up the picture with some resolve, Sansa marched into her bedroom, turned on the table light, and sat on the bed. Her covers had been moved and it only confirmed what she had feared before, that Clegane had glimpsed her implement of sexual pleasure. He had been good at hiding it though, not a change in his expression or voice.  _ Was he shocked? Intimidated?  _ She wondered.  _ Did he like it? _ Exhaling Sansa hiked her skirt up and brought her fingers to her silk panties.

A man like Clegane was probably conservative,  _ Straight missionary position?  _ Sansa giggled to herself, finding her little game of fantasies silly for a woman her age. Yet she could not deny how curious she was about her new bodyguard.  _ His fingers are huge,  _ her breath hitched as she drew circles around her clit. 

_ If his fingers and hands are that big then…. _ Sansa reached over to grab her toy, it was only then that her eye caught the time on her alarm clock,  _ One o’clock am!  _ A puff of frustration exited her nostrils. She would have another early morning and couldn’t afford to be reduced when she had talks with the party heads in the afternoon. 

_ Maybe another time Clegane,  _ she said to herself with a bit of disappointment, opening the drawer of her nightstand and stuffing the picture inside for later.

  
  



	5. Part 2: Opening Up: Chapter 5: Inflammatory Remarks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor reflects on his short time working for her ladyship, while she riles up crowds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to divide this story into parts, collections of chapters that make up a part of the story. I'm not going to move the story along by accounting for every day, but talk about interesting events that pop up in the character's lives. I hope you like this chapter ;-)
> 
> A special thanks to Teakturn, Bailey and Littlewolfbird for reading through this, asking the big questions and helping me to take a step back and enrich the story. It's one thing to write a story for yourself, it's another thing to read somebody else's story and help them make it better. That's dedication! Thanks you three!

**Part 2**

#  Chapter 5: Inflammatory Remarks

Over the last eight and a half weeks Sandor had eased into his fast paced position as Lady Sansa Stark’s personal bodyguard and head of security. He had become accustomed to her crazy schedule, knew all of the public buildings like the back of his hand, and had become well acquainted with her moods. Not that she was moody in the stereotypically female sense, but rather he knew when the wolf was going to save her strength for a proper battle and when she was going to bare her fangs and bite.

He also knew she liked her coffee with a bit of cream and no sugar, anything else would get you an evil eye and a few choice words--especially before 8am.  _ More intimate than marriage,  _ he often told himself sarcastically.

Very much like marriage most of Sandor’s waking hours in these weeks had been devoted to Lady Sansa Stark. It was his job to know her ways and habits. He had to get into her head, know when she would want to stop to give a statement to the press. Sandor needed to gain a sixth sense for when she needed her time for herself in the office or the car, predict when they should detour for a quick bathroom break. Sandor was good at those things, prided himself on his ability to know a person well even if they did not have, what most people would consider, a proper relationship. It had served him well in the special forces, and in civilian life it was no exception.

Sandor was pleased to see how quickly she had grown comfortable with his presence. For a person not used to the level of security he was providing, it must be strange to have another stand sentinel and bare witness to almost everything that you said or did. He had known this from other protection details he had run whilst in the military—trust took time.

What had started as a few days of occasional glances, uncomfortable moments when she did something human, like blow her nose, and uncertainty as to how to position him in meetings had turned into a well orchestrated dance between them. One where Sandor knew exactly what she wanted from him, to the point where he was regarded more like furniture than a hulking bodyguard.  _ As it should be, simple and uncomplicated. _

Her Ladyship spoke only briefly to him if she required something out of the ordinary, or needed complete silence. She was always polite, typically inspecting him closely in the morning when he picked her up from her apartment, then ending the day with a, “Good night, Clegane.” She would often kick off her shoes and unbutton her blouse, her back to him as she walked, swaying her perfect bum, into her bedroom. Sandor then often stole a much longer glance at her with her back turned, setting her house alarm slowly before locking the door behind him. Deep down he hoped she would turn back, give a coy smile and invite him to follow her. 

Of course she never did _. That ass is burned in my memory,  _ he would joke to himself.  _ At least that. _

It would have been wrong to say he was obsessed with Sansa Stark. It was his job after all, but he could not deny that his infatuation with her, at times, crossed the line between professional and personal. Even if he had regarded himself as good at keeping a separation between these two worlds, his therapist would have told him differently. She would have said he was good at hiding things, burying things until it hit a point where he acted without thinking. Did something stuipd or dangerous, almost without forewarning.  _ Impulsive, was what she said. It was a trait ideal for my role in the military, but ill suited for civilian life. _

This was why Sandor knew he needed to be careful with her Ladyship. He knew he needed to maintain a distance with her, hide behind his mask of cold professionalism. She had invaded his dreams, taken up residence in his mind to the point that, even on his days off or in that short time before he went to bed, he thought about her. Sandor found himself wondering what her lips might taste like, contemplating if she was a dirty girl or a good one, hoping that one day she might look at him as more than a painting on a wall or a particularly large sculpture. 

That was just it. 

Sandor knew that if she showed him even one glimmer of softness, made it clear that he might even have a chance, that he might give into his impulsive nature. That he would act on his desires, live out his fantasies,  _ And probably fuck it all up like I’ve done everything my life.  _ So he stayed the course, happy with the distance of their closeness and hoped that nothing would change.

Of course, things would change. Things always did, no matter how much you willed it differently. It was only a question of when.

Today was certainly a hunting day for the young wolf, Sandor could see it by the way she stood in the middle of the parliamentary chambers at her lectern. The debate between her and Lord Tywin Lannister was being televised; even his grandson the King had decided to come down from the Iron Throne and mix with the plebs. 

_ I’d bet my last gold piece that twink of a boy isn’t Robert Baratheon’s son. Too skinny, too blonde, no fight in him.  _ Sandor had known the boy’s father, shaken his hand when he took the throne, and attended all the pomp and circumstance that came with the overthrow of the Targaryen King. The fat bastard had not known which of the special ops had done the deed for him, only that he was indebted to them for his crown. His supposed son didn’t seem to care much for anything or anyone other than himself. He was weak, vain, and cruel.  _ All the makings of another coup,  _ Sandor shivered at the thought of another civil war.

Sandor stood in the back of the small, cramped room behind Lord Tywin, facing her Ladyship. The perfect position to observe her facial expressions in detail. 

She was gripping the lectern firmly, a sign she was ready to spring into action. Her eyes were narrowed, her head slightly to the side as she listened critically to what Lord Tywin was saying.  _ She’s pretty when she’s angry, but that doesn’t make me wanna be on her bad side,  _ Sandor noted, watching an angry flush creep into her cheeks. It almost gave her the appearance of a rosy cheeked maiden from one of the many books on fairytales her Ladyship kept in her home.  _ Almost _ , Sandor grinned to himself as he enjoyed her fiery spirit.

“Really Lady Stark, your coalition’s healthcare for all plan is a fiction. You can’t, in good conscious, believe that the people will want their taxes to be raised for services they may not even need. We live in the greatest country in the world, the very thought that we need to change the system is preposterous.” Lord Tywin Lannister’s words were condescending and dripping with a thinly veiled anger. 

The senior statesman from Casterly Rock had been in politics since before Sandor had been born. He was as pompous as he was ruthless, with his roots so deeply grown into the political machine of Westeros that it would be nearly impossible to separate man, politics, and power. 

Sandor knew Lord Tywin from reputation alone, not having had much to do with him in his special ops capacity. Now, observing him from behind and listening to his arguments and rebuttals, it was clear that the elder statesman had prepared hard for this debate. He was collected, his papers in order, his arguments well thought through. Perhaps was the tone of his voice, or the way he held his body that clued Sandor into the fact that Lady Stark got under the man’s skin. 

Maybe it was what she represented, a new, young blood in the political establishment that put the man on edge. Maybe it was the fact that she was capable of countering his arguments in the same aggressive manner he did hers--a young beautiful woman with no intention of being intimidated by him.Though he could not see his facial expression, Sandor noticed the way in which he held his shoulder as he talked, the way he tapped his pen on his lectern with irritation.  _ The old man doesn’t like to be shown up by her, hates it even _

Sansa paused to allow the noises of dissent in the background to run their course. The government of Westeros had always been a place for spirited debate and today would be no different. Those backing her Ladyship grumbled at the words of her opponent, those supporting Lord Tywin cheered his stances. 

As usual Sandor’s eyes darted around the room to look for anybody who might be out of place, or even nervous enough to look guilty. His eyes caught Brienne’s and they gave each other a curt nod. All was well, even if they had been standing for two hours in the same place.  _ I’m getting too old for this shit,  _ Sandor joked to himself, shaking his legs to relieve the strain when he felt no one was looking.

“Perhaps if my coalition’s plan were in place now, my Lord could get both his eyes and ears checked properly.” There was this twinkle in her eyes as she said this to one of the most revered and feared legislators in all the land. 

“Here,” she raised a thick book, “we have laid out our plans in black and white. The numbers speak for themselves. And I don’t think I have to remind you that this is the third time this year we discuss such a topic in these chambers. What more do we have to do for you to see that it is folly to continue the way we are. Shall I have it printed in a larger font, my Lord? Printed in braille perhaps?”

_ Ouch,  _ Sandor grinned to himself as he listened to her. It was not the first personal swipe taken in this debate, but he had provoked her so she retaliated. He was a wiley fox, this Tywin Lannister. Then again he had never had anybody talk to him quite the way Lady Stark did. That’s why it was not surprising to Sandor that she had so many death threats, why some of them should be taken very seriously. His eyes continued to rove the crowd. 

“I hardly think this is the time to get emotional about the whole thing, Lady Stark. Rather we should go about it in a logical manner, and this cannot happen until we open a proper inquiry and collect the numbers for ourselves. His Grace is even taking it up out of personal interest. The well-being of his subjects is of the highest importance.” The condescending tones in Lord Tywin’s voice elicited just as many boos as they did laughs from the crowd. 

There was no way he could imagine what it must feel like to be up there in that moment, knowing the whole nation was watching. It was different to war, different to what Sandor knew -- yet the adrenaline rush must have been similar. Fuck, when he’d been sent to Dorne on assignemnt all Sandor had was a mission, his gun and his wits. Lady Sansa didn’t even have a gun, but she certainly used her mind to great effect.

Sandor loved how expressive her face could be, the nuance of her feelings easily displayed when she allowed it. Now she was feeling outrage, her eyelids opening wider, her pupils narrowing, her lips drawing together as if to prepare the onslaught she was about to unleash.

“I say shame. Shame to you,” she looked the old man square in the eye, as if challenging him to a fist fight, “Shame on the crown, “she pointed to King Joffrey who scoffed at her, “and shame on everybody who believes in such utter nonsense.” Her supporters in the parliament stood up in solidarity, as if to shield her from the raw backlash of the opposing parties. 

“If you really cared about the people you would not have been dragging your feet on this topic for a year already. In the North we have implemented a lesser version of this and it has been incredibly successful in reducing…”

Lord Tywin cut her off mid-sentence.  _ Bad idea _ , Sandor thought. “Now, now I don’t quite see what the North has to do with this. It is sparsely populated and has a different mentality than many of…”

Her Ladyship was on fire. Sandor was sure that, had anyone touched her, they would have burned, so was the heat of her northern temper. He knew that blue flames burned hotter and longer than red ones, and Sansa Stark possessed both. Her curled, red hair looked alive in the backlighting of the parliament room, flickering in a way that reflected her dismay. Her beautiful cerulean eyes danced with a biting intelligence that would intimidate any man, woman or beast.  _ Except for me, but I’ve already been burned once before. Perhaps the second time is sweeter than the first,  _ Sandor’s self deprecating humor getting the better of him.

Cutting off Lord Tywin in a similar fashion her Ladyship interjected, “Well while we are on the subject of the North being different, perhaps we can discuss how we might form our own separate union…”

At this chambers exploded with cheers and boos, papers flying and people standing. Some were even pointing and shouting, both at her and at each other. Sandor inhaled deeply his eyes darting from person to person, daring some of these so-called tough guys to take a step toward his charge. 

Lord Tywin laughed, doing what he could to rub salt in her wounds, “Lady Stark your outrageous desires surprise even me. I would suggest you put your energy into something attainable, like finding a good man and settling down. That’s much more likely to happen than the breakup of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Even if his words had been inflammatory, the Lady Stark did well to keep her expression trained, to the casual observer anyway. She didn’t fool Sandor though. He was a keen observer of human nature, took a particular interest in understanding body language and the slightest twinge that might key him into what a person is thinking. It was about as close to mind reading as any mortal could get, and for his line of work, both as active duty military and now--it was a much needed skill. 

Lady Stark’s eyebrow twitched ever so slightly, her knuckles had become white from the intensity of gripping the wood of the lectern. Sandor knew that whatever would come out her mouth now would be an attack, and probably something her speech writers and advisors had not prepared for her in advance.

“Well you can take your outdated ideas of women’s life goals and shove them right up your bum.”

Her words silenced the boisterous discussions going on in the background, and a moment of pure shock went through those in attendance. Lord Tywin’s shoulders shifted from relaxed to hauty in an instant. They made Sandor flinch for a second as they took an almost aggressive twitch, before settling back down.

_ All he needs to do is take one step toward her,  _ Sandor welcomed the excuse to punch the old piece of petrified Lannister shit straight in his smug, misogynistic face.

To be honest, even Sandor himself hadn’t been completely sure he had heard Lady Sansa properly. It wasn’t every day something like that was said between politicians publicly, even in his short time in the political arena Sandor knew that. His eyes went to Brienne so as to confirm that her Ladyship had actually said when he thought she had. The slight smirk on Brienne’s face and a little wink in his direction was all he needed.  _ Baelish is going to shit himself at this gaffe,  _ Sandor thought knowing her Chief of Staff would be displeased.  _ She said what we were all thinking, better that than swallowing it. _

It was on that note that the time had run out, the moderator closed the program and the cameras turned off. The noise in the room was overwhelming, but Sandor pushed through the members of parliament to make his way down to his principal. She wasn’t more than a couple of feet from Lord Tywin as he made it down there, giving the older man a stare that suggested violence if he made a move for her.

“Up my bum,” Sandor heard him say, “that’s going to be one for the press.” Lord Tywin had a sneer on his face as he said it.

Lady Stark turned her eyes up from the papers she was putting into her briefcase, having taken a breath or two to collect herself. “We’re all in need of a good bumming, my Lord. Even the King from what I hear.”

Her eyebrow was raised in such a way as if to caution Lord Tywin from even further opening his mouth, almost daring him to do so. Such information about the King’s personal life was not common knowledge,  _ Baelish certainly told her that one,  _ Sandor thought to himself. Given that the stability of the Seven Kingdoms was already on a knife’s edge, anything that might shake the conservative status quo was a threat to the crown, and Lord Tywin’s power.  _ She needs to be careful, that will make you enemies faster than suggesting a bumming will. _

Sandor saw the flash of rage rise in the old man’s eyes and decided the situation would be best diffused by separating them.

“Ma’am,” Sandor took her gently by the elbow and lead her through the throng of people making their way out of chambers. Once in the hallway, Lady Sansa took a swift turn down a quieter hallway and pushed open a meeting room door.

“East side of the building, room 402. We need a minute,” he said over his ear piece before following Lady Sansa into the room and shutting the door behind them. Seeing the room was secure, Sandor switched off his coms so anything she said would stay private.

The conference room was empty, immaculate as if a meeting were going to start any moment. It seemed the perfect setting to trash the place. Lady Stark grabbed a cup of pencils and threw it across the room, its contents crashing against the wall and spilling all over the floor. She took a white board eraser and did the same, then pushed a couple of the chairs around, just to get everything out. Sandor couldn’t begrudge her this, he more than most, knew the need to suffocate anger with violence. 

Grabbing the back of a thickly upholstered chair, Sansa put her forehead on its high back and began breathing deeply. “Who in the Seven Hells does he think his is? Find a husband?”

Sandor knew it was a rhetorical question by the way she asked it, her voice raised and her forehead pressed into the cushion. Her knuckles were white again from the grip she had on that poor defenseless chair. Sandor merely crossed his arms in front of his body and blocked the door, knowing nobody else should be witnessing this display of frustration and anger. 

“Me, emotional? He came with the personal attacks first. They were completely unnecessary and he calls me emotional?” The world wasn’t a fair one, but Sandor didn’t need to tell her that. Even as young and sheltered as she was, the Lady Stark had learned much about male power and privilege, doing her best to fight it. It made everything she said and did even more scrutinized. Surely it tortured her, particularly in moments like this where she needed to express her true feelings.

After a few good breaths, and what he presumed to be a five count, Sandor could see the tension in her body stabilize. “‘Shove it up your bum’?! That’s going to just be the best headline, isn’t it?”

This time she had turned her eyes to him, her breathing still labored from the anger running through her. It was the first time she had directly addressed him with a question since his first day of work. Usually she did her best to treat him with the professional distance his role demanded. Sandor kept an awkward silence until he realized her eyes were so fixed on him, that she was actually expecting him to answer.

“I think you gave him an enviable bumming in the debate, ma’am,” Sandor said as cut and dry as he could. 

At that she cracked a grin and it broke the tension in her body. “I didn’t know you had such a sense of humor, Clegane.” Her cheeks blushed a bit and it confused Sandor. 

“‘No war was ever won in anger,’” she said after a moment, smiling calmly. “That’s what my father always said anyway. Though I must admit it did feel good to watch him squirm.” Sansa’s smile took on a devilish quality, one that nearly made him break his mask of professional indifference in her presence.

Instead Sandor merely nodded at her words, reflecting on the many times he had killed in anger and wondering if it had ever brought him anything more than a temporary sort of satisfaction. 

“Perhaps I can use that to my advantage, embrace my foul use of language in chambers…” Lady Stark brought her hands to her face a moment as if she were considering something. Her mind always seemed to race a hundred miles an hour, so it wasn’t unusual for her to change the direction of a conversation quickly if she had a good idea. Sandor had witnessed it many times before. This time she would need to pick a proper strategy if she was going to come out of this gaffe unscathed. 

She was a polarizing force, no doubt about it. That was a big part of the reason why those who supported her loved her as they did, and those who opposed her hated her more than other politicians. Lady Stark had a way of speaking the truth that was both refreshing and in some ways non-traditional. Politics, much like the military, was a man’s world and there were many, like Lord Tywin, who would prefer women stay out of it. So even if this particular word choice had been only slightly out of bounds, the fact that it came out of a woman’s mouth made it the more threatening and shocking in the eyes of the establishment. 

Lost in thought, her Ladyship moved the chair back into position—though she neglected to pick up the pencil cup and eraser. She was calmer now, her shoulders lower and her mouth not drawn into a tight scowl. After some moments passed, she turned to Sandor. 

“It’s ok. We can make our way now,” she didn’t smile but Sandor knew that look. She had settled on something and knew what direction she would take. Lady Sansa didn’t like uncertainty, she was thoughtful, logical and prepared.

That was one of the few things that made them different in Sandor’s eye. While he thrived on chaos and the unknown, she required an orderly universe where everything worked properly, that was what she devoted her life in politics to afterall.

“Just one moment, my Lady.” Taking his clean, still crisply folded handkerchief out of his pocket, Sandor stepped forward. He gently raised his hand to her face and wiped a smear of eyeliner that had smudged down her face,  _ One lonely tear of rage,  _ Sandor mused. It hinted at a different woman than the one standing at the lectern. Somebody more human, more vulnerable than they let on.

Her eyes never faltered from him, even as he focused on the smudge. If he wasn’t mistaken, he could hear her breath hitch when he touched her face. Yet she did not shy from him, nor did she turn away. If anything there was a faint smile behind her eyes when he pulled back. “All good to go, ma’am.”

They left the conference room and moved into the main part of the building, right into a throng of reporters. Both Sandor and Brienne were doing their best to keep them back, needing to physically create space so that her Ladyship could walk through. Finding a good photo op spot, she turned to take some questions from the press, knowing well what the topic would be.

She pursed her lips together and waited patiently for the questions on her language in chambers to be asked, then she answered. “I, for one, think it was time Lord Tywin heard the truth about this modern century from a woman. If anything, he perfectly embodies everything I am fighting against in politics. Get a husband? Perhaps his Lordship should open his eyes to the world around him.” 

Sandor’s eyes darted around the crowd, looking for anything that might be out of place or dangerous. Public places, like hallways and parking lots, were security nightmares. Easy access for any assailant, easy to set off panic if they were crowded with limited avenues of escape. For now, everything was under control. The crowd was focused on what she had to say.

“The roles of women,” she continued, “have been changing for decades and we demand fair representation in government. I would say, to all the young ladies out there who are interested in changing their circumstances, get into politics. Fight those who have these backward ideas of how life is and make this country into a place where we all can live. So no, I don’t regret saying it. If anything, I would tell him, and anyone else with those ideas to bend over,” she pushed two fingers together, “and take these.”

These kinds of situations with Sansa always built a bit of dread in Sandor, mainly because it was difficult to gauge if the crowd was mostly on her side or not. Political debate always brought out the worst in followers, in Sandor’s view, because they were often not about issues but about winning over your opponent. Landy Sansa had done well this morning and ended on, both a vulgar and infuriating note for some. Sandor kept his eyes peeled for anybody who wasn’t thrilled about the promise of having her fingers shoved up their rear end.

_ What I wouldn’t give for those who beautiful fingers in my bum,  _ Sandor almost blushed at the thought. Once, on a deployment to Essos, a tavern whore had been brave enough to give him a bit of ass play during their encounter. What had been surprising at first, had quickly become a kink he very much enjoyed. The whore had charged him extra for it, of course, but that didn’t matter.

_ Then to have those gorgeous pink lips around my cock,  _ he couldn’t help himself sometimes. It was a challenge to keep his mind fully professional in her presence. He would have basically had to have been dead not to think about her from time to time.  _ But now you need to focus Clegane, and fight this bloody boner. _

As if on cue, Bronn chimed in over his own private channel, “Bet you can’t wait for those two beauties, can ya, mate?”

Sandor coughed so as to indicate Bronn was a right cunt, knowing he couldn’t say anything over his coms that Brienne would hear without changing the channel.  _ He always picks the worst times for that kind of shit. _

With that, she ended her press conference abruptly. “Little Bird on the move,” he whispered over his coms. “Get the car ready.”

Sandor pushed their way through the storm of people rushing in to surround her Ladyship. Some were reporters asking still more questions. Some were fans, espousing their undying support for her initiatives and her desire for the freedom of her homeland. Some were protesters, spitting insults and snarling their discontent for her policies. In this old dog’s eyes they were basically all the same. All held potential risks to her safety, all could use their love, hate or curiosity to put her in danger. So Sandor treated them all equally as he pushed through them, knocking a few protesters to the ground as he did so to make enough space for the Lady Stark to leave the building.

Suddenly there was a rush of commotion different from what Sandor had been dealing with just moments ago. A man caught Sandor’s eye, he was running through the crowd with a book in his left hand and something shiny in his right. “Dark haired male, green jacket, rushing my 10.” Sandor spat into his coms.

“Negative, can’t see him.” Brienne’s voice crackled in his ear only barely audible over the noise of the crowd.

Sandor could feel the adrenaline in his body spike, hear his heart throbbing in his ears. He watched the man in question continue to push himself unceremoniously to the front of the crowd. When he got within earshot Sandor spoke loudly, “Stop, sir.”

When that did not phase him, Sandor moved quickly to put himself between the man and Lady Sansa. Grabbing the man firmly by the lapel with his right hand, he lifted the threat off the ground and reared his fist back. The man squeaked in shock, dropping the book he had in one of his hands and a pen, the shiny thing Sandor had taken for a threat, from the other. He could see the fear in this man’s eyes, and knew immediately he was not a threat—just not before he had made a scene of the whole thing in front of the cameras.

“It’s alright, Clegane. I always have time to give a quick autograph.” Her eyes were murderous, angry that he would treat a supporter the way he had. Sandor immediately put the man on the ground and straightened his own jacket and tie. She would have something to say about this when they were alone, he knew as much. But the man had not heeded his warnings and therefore nearly gotten his head caved in for his troubles. 

Standing sentinel by her Ladyship, Sandor watched as she signed the book he had with a smile and made an apology for Sandor’s roughness. 

They continued to make their way to the car, “Little Bird is enroute, give us three minutes.” Sandor spoke into the earpiece, catching the slight glare she gave him at hearing the name. 

If there was one thing Sandor could say for her Ladyship, it was that she did not like the code name he had assigned to her. Having used it many times over the nearly three months he had been in her service, it was not difficult to notice her displeasure. Sandor had become used to the occasional side eye or dead on glare she threw his way if she happened to hear him use it.

_ It’s diminutive and she thinks that translates into disparaging, but she’s wrong.  _ Though he had come up with this name on the fly, Sandor trusted his gift for evaluating people, even after knowing them for only a few moments. The same held true in this situation. Of course she was every bit a wolf when she needed to be, but behind it she was something else.  _ A little bird beating its wings against a strong headwind. Fighting for every inch of progress whilst hoping to escape the confines of her golden cage.  _

The name suited her, even if both she and his colleagues thought differently. As her head of security it was his prerogative as to what to call her, his minor way of asserting his authority in their lopsided relationship. He loved seeing that little swatch of anger cross her face every time he used it.

Good sex always needed a spark like their relationship. A little tossle over dominance to get the blood flowing and the tension high. In the end Sandor never cared who won, only that both parties ended up naked and satisfied. 

_ Well don’t get your hopes up, Bud.  _ Sandor told himself,  _ You’re too old and too ugly to mix with such a girl. _

It was easy for him to forget that, once this contract was over, they would go back to their separate lives as if this time spent together as bodyguard and principal would be just a memory.  _ It’s good this way, better this way. _

When they reached a less busy section of the hallway leading to a side exit where her car would be waiting, her Ladyship spoke, “What the hell was that, Clegane? I don’t need the papers fighting over which headline to spear me under.”

Her eyes held a fire to them that moved something deep within him. She could easily make him her slave with those words and that death look. Sandor gazed into her eyes as long as he dared, fearing he would lose himself in them. “He didn’t heed my warning and I couldn’t identify what was in both of his hands, ma’am. I stand by my decision.”

She wasn’t used to somebody who had backbone, but didn’t flaunt it. Like the way of Lord Tywin. Sandor was obedient, the perfect soldier, but he could think and reason for himself. To run missions with Wolf Team you had to. But in taking his own side he did not look down on hers, which was what she was unaccustomed to. Particularly from an old roughed up dog like him.

She stopped then, turning so she could fully hold him in her line of sight. “And what would you have done if he had held a knife in that hand instead of a pen?”

There was a challenge to her question, as if his actions would not have been sufficient enough to save her from something truly life threatening. That was where she was wrong. Sandor held his arm out to mimic the position he had been holding the man, “It would have taken me two seconds to break his neck.” He demonstrated using both of his hands in the air for her, “A real assassin might have gotten one or two good stabs in before his arms would no longer work. Then I’d have suffocated him, but that’s because I’m a humanitarian, ma’am. No one wants to see him wait an agonizing amount of time to die.”

He didn’t know what she was thinking, her expression had changed little throughout his demonstration. Sandor had to remind himself that she had grown up in peace time and had not experienced the horrors of war. Even if she had, there was a difference in being a civilian, and throwing yourself head first into the mix. Sandor had never cared about where he had been sent or what the mission was, he had only ever been fixated on achieving his goals and killing as many of the enemy as possible. His expertise as a killer was not something she could ever understand,  _ Nobody can. _

She merely took a moment to process his words, a slight flush rising in her neck before she spoke, “Alright. Then let’s keep going.”

Sandor could hear Brienne click her teeth in disapproval on the other end. Sometimes they could hear the full conversations he had, sometimes only his part. Eitherway he had just described a pretty grousome death for anybody stupid enough to approach Lady Sansa with malintent. He had grown to really like Brienne since he started working for her Ladyship. She was strong, trustworthy, and good at her job. She did, in Sandor’s opinion, keep Lady Stark too protected from the outside world. Isolation from the electorate wasn’t good for a politician, at least in his mind. Hence Sandor would never protect her from the truth, it just wasn’t often that he was asked.

Once at the car, he opened the door and ensured she was comfortable before running around to the passenger side of the vehicle. He strapped himself in but noticed how her eyes had not left him since he had entered the car. She was not angry, of that Sandor was sure. She was, for lack of a better word, studying him. Trying to discern his thoughts through the rearview mirror of the car. 

Throwing her a devilish look only with his eyes, he had to chuckle to himself. There was very little chance of him betraying his feelings in her presence. In his previous life opinions didn’t matter, nor were they welcome. You did something because you were ordered to do it, not because you wanted to. Because of this, Sandor was good at hiding his feelings, at swallowing his own emotions.  _ I’ve been doin’ it longer than you’ve been alive, my Lady.  _

If she was trying to figure him out, dissect his brain from the back of a Mercedes, it was going to take her quite some time to do so. Sandor would go so far as to say it would be nearly impossible. Yet, part of him wanted Sansa Stark to know him as he really was, not merely as her hired muscle. Sandor’s eyes met hers and he did not shy away from looking at her. They had a spark, and it was only a matter of time before it caught and burned the whole bloody place down. 

But she didn’t need to know that. All she needed to know was that he was there to do a job, to die for her if the need arose. 

Pleased with himself for not cracking under the pressure of her gaze, Sandor merely nodded to her, “All buckled up, my Lady?”

She nodded, then pretended to look in her briefcase for something. He chuckled to himself again, satisfied he’d won this round with the strong willed Lady of the North.

With that, Sandor told the driver to step on it.


	6. Dark Instincts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa mulls over her political moves and life in general, while Clegane's quick thinking puts them in closer proximity than she could have hoped for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow it's been soooo long since I wrote something. I'm so sorry to have taken such a long leave of absence from this forum. Life has been crazy. In February my job was busy, travel to Australia and the UK left me exhausted, then our business totally halted with COVID-19 and I'm beginning a time of "reduced" work. I'm not complaining, there are so many people out there with no job security or social net to cling to in this time that I consider myself lucky -- at the same time it's been difficult to feel creative. Now, that we've settled in, my family in Italy are all healthy, and we are in a period where we can do nothing but wait to see what life throws at us, I find myself getting the itch again.
> 
> I'm thankful for my health, and for the love and support of my husband. With spring here and time on my hands I am making clothing (I'm a notorious knitter) and feeling the desire to write again for the first time in what has felt like an eternity. 
> 
> I hope that all of you out there on the forum are healthy and happy. All my love and support goes out to you as we battle this pandemic. I hope to start writing more now, given that I have the gift of time AND that I feel ready to daydream adventures again.
> 
> THANKS to all the ladies that read this chapter like 6 weeks ago and gave input, I appreciate it so much. I didn't get back to you but I will now soon as I slowly bring my profile and presence on tumblr and AO3 back to life. 
> 
> Hugs!

#  Chapter 6: Dark Instincts

She shuffled the papers in her briefcase around as if they were the most interesting things in the world. Sansa took extra care to ensure they would not crumple, smoothing every edge with the tips of her fingers, making sure her hair fell in front of her face as she did so. It was all an attempt to keep her eyes from meeting Clegane’s penetrating gaze, now burning a hole through her via the rearview mirror. It unnerved her, but not for the reasons one might think. 

Without a doubt he was a man to be feared, one to handle with care. Clegane’s outward appearance would have surely been enough to ward off the casual observer, but this was not what made her weary. It was his eyes. Their stormy irises had seen things Sansa could not imagine for herself. They had witnessed pain, seen violence, and closed themselves to immeasurable acts of cruelty. They were not the eyes of a casual observer, but of a man who was more than capable of divining her deepest, darkest secrets.  _ And once he has them, what will he do with them?  _ This realization frightened her above all else. The fact that he could look at her and know things unbid, that there was an amount of power that came with it. 

Clegane’s answer to her question about what he might have done had they been confronted with a would-be-assassin had surprised her, though it probably should not have. He had been calm, clear, and articulate. Death was not a messy thing to him, not taboo. It was, or had been, very much part of his life and consequent survival during the time he served Westeros. Sansa had looked into his eyes but could not tell whether he enjoyed killing, or whether it had been a duty. His explanation had been clinical, devoid of any emotion she was familiar with -- as if it were instinct for him, something as natural as breathing.

If Sansa had to be honest with herself, it was hard to imagine a person she spent so much time with  _ and  _ found herself wildly attracted to, capable of such violence. The revelation brought back childhood memories of when Robb’s dog, a loved and adored family pet, had suddenly taken off after a squirrel. In the blink of an eye, the tame and domesticated mut gave into his inner beast, catching and ripping the poor little thing to pieces in front of their eyes.

Everyone, including Robb, had been surprised, horrified even.  _ And yet why? All domestic animals are only one step away from their wild roots. We train them so that they are not total slaves to their dark instincts, yet they find it harder than us to fight their natural desires to chase, to catch, to kill.  _

Inhaling, Sansa reminded herself of this cautionary tale. For as well mannered, professional, and quiet as Sandor Clegane was, Sansa took a moment, while King’s Landing flew by her from the car window, to remind herself of just that. She had not paid for a male model to escort her around the city for her amusement, but rather a man capable of extreme levels of violence. A man who had, most likely, killed without remorse and had not only been good at it, but had been decorated to the highest levels for it. When the time is right,  _ If the time is right,  _ she corrected herself,  _ I’ll need him to do what he has been trained to do. To protect, defend, kill, die if necessary. _

As much as Sansa tried to be disgusted by this idea, or tried to tell herself that she should not, and could not, be attracted to a man like this--that didn’t stop her intense interest in him. 

If anything it fueled it. 

In the hall, she had fought the urge to ask him how many men had breathed their last in his hands this way. It was a personal, morbid curiosity and had nothing to do with their professional relationship. As a matter of fact, she had a lot of thoughts about the man that had nothing to do with their professional relationship and everything to do with her deeper, baser desires. The desires she feared he would uncover.

There was conflict within Sansa when it came to how large their emotional distance should be. She had always been a “down to business” kind of person, but never cold particularly to those who worked closely with her. With Clegane, she felt she was pushing him away on purpose, because, much like her old family pet, she might not be able to control herself around him.

_ He’s the squirrel to my hound,  _ she thought and almost laughed out loud at the mental picture it created. Professionalism gave her a cushy barrier, kept the object of her interest at arm’s length.  _ It’s all for the better, and yet ... _

The adjustment of having such a personal bodyguard had not been an easy one for her, mainly because she found him very distracting and the act of having somebody protect you was incredibly intrusive. No matter what meeting she was in or event she attended, Clegane was always bigger and meaner looking than anybody else. For as much as she hated to admit it, there was a certain assumed power in size and strength. It was one that she could never possess given her sex and build. The more she searched within herself the more she realized that, even if she were Clegane’s size, she would not be capable of killing a man with her bare hands.  _ It takes a certain kind of person to do those things,  _ she told herself.

_ Or a very desperate one,  _ her inner voice whispered. Sansa thought back to the photo of the young, teenaged Sandor Clegane attached to his dossier. Having been brought up in wealth and privilege, it was hard for Sansa to fathom leaving her family at such a young age only to be shipped overseas to fight the wars of politicians.

_ And yet you know what it is to have everything taken from you, to fight for yourself,  _ she told herself. 

Yes, there was something in Clegane that she saw in herself but could not put her finger on. All Sansa knew was that it drew her in, and she was helpless against the pull of his gravity.  _ He doesn’t know how dangerous he is for me. And it’s best that way. _

Today Sansa had flirted with that very danger. In her overwhelming anger and frustration with Lord Tywin’s words, and her own disappointment at her outburst on a national stage, she had asked him his opinion on her debate performance. It was not an unusual thing on the surface, she often asked her advisors and her long time confidant Brienne about such things. But she had not intended to ask  _ him _ . The words, her anger, her tears, had simply slipped out unbid. Sansa was a person accustomed to hiding her true self from those around her, not letting her face as the hard Lady of the North slip.  _ But it had been easy with him, natural.  _

His deadpan humor, and what could have been understood as having a twinge of naughty in it had come through.  _ I laughed for the first time in a long time. A real smile, not a forced one. It’s wrong for me to not get to know him better. What’s the harm in building a closer, friendly relationship with him? _

_ Even if that means letting him see a different side of you?  _ Her inner voice asked, as if it already knew her answer.

_ Yes,  _ she answered,  _ we’re colleagues, it's different. If anything, perhaps I can find a friend in him as I have in Brienne. I can fight my darker instincts, I’m not a beast. _

_ Are you so sure? _ Her conscious interjected. Sansa rolled her eyes to herself, as if that would reprimand her cheeky inner voice. 

It was difficult to decouple this infatuation with Clegane from her relationship troubles with Harry. That was something Sansa certainly had to admit to herself. It also cast a shadow over her true desires, making it difficult to distinguish what was born out of real interest, and out of her utter loneliness. 

_ Is Clegane just some sort of proxy Harry, who doesn't argue with me and is always there?  _ Her bodyguard’s detachment and calm demeanor made it easy to project anything you wanted on him.  _ No matter what, it's not fair to him. It’s not fair to pretend he doesn’t exist and it’s certainly not fair to think he’s everything I want in a man without even knowing him.  _

Sansa was bewildered, there was no other way to put it. She wanted things to work out with Harry, fantasized about how they would see each other from across the room, run into one another’s arms, and forgive all of the petty fighting that had come between them in the last months. She wanted this to the point of lying to herself that she still loved him. Her brother’s murder, her life being turned on its head in its aftermath, her foray into a world of politics she despised. All of this had changed her, changed the things that she needed from life and the people in it.  _ Yet Harry is the only thing I still have from before. From before Robb was taken from me. Is that why I’m so reluctant to end it?  _

Her thoughts when immediately back to the debate, and the moment when her anger and her pride had gotten the better of her. Tywin Lannister had unwittingly hit a sore spot this morning. One that wouldn’t soon heal over. She was so battered, bruised and beaten emotionally and yet nobody seemed to care, least of all herself. Robb had always had political aspirations, and had been following in the footsteps of their father since before she could remember. Sansa, on the other hand, had only taken his place to fill the void in the party, to continue the work of her brother. Not because she loved it or felt she was good at it.

_ What was I thinking?  _ Sansa thought back to her words in chambers, but wondered if this question was aimed more at her life in general. She was by no means an angel, particularly when it came to political debate tactics, but her words had been on the edge. 

_ No over the edge, _ more fodder for the other side than really helping her side win anything.  _ Baelish will berate me for that misstep, then kiss my hand and tell me he will get me out of the mess I made.  _ She rolled her eyes again, this time not caring if anyone saw. 

It had been stupid and unstatesmen like. She was in the war to win it, not lord over small tit-for-tat victories. Though she had been in politics a relatively short time, it felt like forever. It felt like she shouldn’t fall prey to such tactics laid out by other, more sly elder statesmen. It made her feel stupid and naieve, it made her want to crawl in a hole and die.  _ Or focus on who killed Robb, and why... _

“We’re here, your Ladyship.” Clegane’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. They had arrived at her offices in the center of the city rather quickly.  _ As we always do, he knows the city better than the back of his hand. _

Sansa nodded, looking forward to getting some work done and simply hiding from the press. She wanted to lay her head on her desk a moment, pretend it had not happened.  _ Stop feeling sorry for yourself,  _ her inner voice scolded.  _ You’re hard on yourself for good reason, but you can’t carry all of these burdens forever. Don’t forget why you’re here, and what still needs to be done. _

The second car pulled up soon after they had stopped, and Sansa saw Brienne get out alone. Clegane then opened his door, scanning the empty sidewalk, and opened her door for her. There were a few reporters hanging around the entrance, Clegane rightfully got her out quickly and began to escort her around the back side of the building, through a parking lot which led to a back door to her offices few knew about. He had been right to think she did not want to discuss anything more with the press at this point.

As he escorted her to the back parking lot, Sansa looked at her watch. It was almost noon. She needed food, something to get her to think more critically. Then she needed to get her team together and brainstorm better how they might get this healthcare bill up for a final vote while she had any kind of momentum. Of course they would have to deal with fallout from this debate, but she was certain they would find a reasonable solution.

Her phone rang, almost startling her while she followed Clegane around the building. Dreading who might be on the other line, Sansa paused a moment on the sidewalk, stopping Clegane in front of her, and dug the blasted thing out of her briefcase. 

_ Baelish,  _ she snorted reading the name that flashed on the screen.  _ There’s no point running from him,  _ Sansa exhaled deeply, then pressed the phone to her ear and answered.

Before she could even say anything, he spoke, “I’m coming downtown immediately, clear your whole afternoon schedule.” 

Sansa continued walking, she moved past Clegane a few steps, still trying to avoid his ever vigilant eye. “Of course,” she answered trying to see the positive in her very public gaffe. “I’ll order some salads, then we can see how we can spin my little outburst.”

“There’s always a way, my dear.” His voice had that tone she hated, as if he were some kind of savior on a white horse, coming to aid the ill fated maiden. “You constituents like that you speak truth to power, but these kinds of words erode your other spheres of influence.”

Fighting an exasperated grunt, Sansa reminded herself to stay calm. It was times like this where she really hated her job. She tried to channel Robb as best she could, remembering how calm he could be in such moments, how poised. Political situations, and navigating them, had been like breathing to him, so much ingrained in his character that he fit the mould of a perfect politician. 

She didn’t get the opportunity to think further than that. Before she could look around, or even take a breath, her body was rolled up with such force that it not only knocked her phone right out of her hand, but her feet right out of her heels. Sansa went to gasp but only sucked in the scent of Clegane’s cologne, his body pressed so tightly against her that she could feel every ripple in every muscle of his chest. One of his massive hands was behind her head, stopping her from feeling the impact of her body against the concrete building, the other was around her waist keeping her firmly sandwiched between him and the building, her feet dangling an inch or two above the sidewalk. 

There was some yelling, sounds that elevated the beats of her already pounding heart. She could hear some commotion, then a couple of splats sounded on the building next to them, then on Sandor. It didn’t sound like gunfire, but she dug her fingers into his shirt all the same, pushing her face so tightly into the nape of his neck that she was sure to leave lipstick stains on his freshly pressed shirt collar.

_ Rotten eggs,  _ she fought back her reaction to throw up, pushing her face deeper into Clegane’s spice scented neck. The man’s body was so broad that there was no chance the assailants would hit her at all, Sansa was simply dwarfed by his broad shoulders and bulging muscles. 

“Brienne there’s two of them. Where the hell…” he didn’t need an answer, Sansa could hear her second bodyguard running at speed, then push a large volume of air out of her lungs as she tackled one of the attackers. They hit the ground with an alarmingly loud thud, the scratching and kicking of rubber shoe soles on the concrete ringing through the air. Sansa could only assume they were struggling, and she hoped Brienne would get the upper hand. 

With that, Clegane let Sansa to the ground and bounded after the second attacker. His absence against her made her feel naked, exposed. Goosebumps pricked the hairs on her arms, so clear was the absence of his heat to her. Sansa took a moment to observe her surroundings, finding herself breathing as if she’d run a marathon. Her eyes squinted from the immediate burst of sun, then went immediately to where Brienne was subduing the first young man. 

He was a scruffy, skinny lad, easily overpowered by the strong and fit female bodyguard. Pressed on his belly, Brienne was straddling his back and working to secure his wrists with zip ties. There was a fleeting feeling of relief that came over Sansa knowing that there was no press around, and that perhaps this little incident could be handled in peace and without their input.

Seeing the first threat abated, Sansa’s eyes moved quickly to the direction Sandor had taken off in. The second teen had a good headstart on her bodyguard, but Clegane was faster than he looked and made it up quickly. There was no hesitation when he lurched forward to tackle the young man on the hard concrete parking lot. The air leaving the attacker’s lungs when he hit the ground was a violent sound, one that was crushed out of him by Sandor’s weight.

There was very little in the way of a struggle, how could there have been? Clegane straddled the kid, his carton of rotten eggs long since strewn across the back parking lot of the highrise building. From where Sansa stood, she could she his hand splayed out across the boy’s chest, and it looked as if it nearly covered the whole thing.Try as he might, the boy’s flailing arms were neither long enough to reach Sandor’s face, nor strong enough move his massive paw from his chest. She could not see Clegane’s face, not that it would have been a window to his soul, but she did not expect to see his fist rear up over his head and punch the subdued young man square in the face.

The boy’s lips burst in that moment, blood spewing back on her bodyguard in the rays of the late morning sun. A moan erupted from his mouth and he put his hands up to block the second blow from her bodyguard, for all the help that was. Sansa could hear the crack of his nose, hear the gurgle of blood before she was shocked into action.

“Stop!” she found herself screaming over the noise. “That’s enough!”

Clegane froze and looked back at her, his fist was raised over his head. Sandor’s face was stained with the young assailant’s blood, making him look like a wild beast, a barbarian ready to beat the life out of the man below him. What was immediate to Sansa, and what frightened her the most was how calm his grey eyes were. They contrasted so greatly with the scene around them, that she could not fathom what he was thinking and why he was beating this boy, who clearly no longer posed a threat. but his eyes did not match the wild, adrenaline high man in front of her. 

Sansa thought back to her family dog and wondered what brought this instinct out in Clegane.  _ Was it the moan that came from his prey’s lips? The scent of blood? Or did he just want to teach the kid a lesson the hard way? Who can say? _ But her voice seemed to jostle him from his bloodlust -- an obedience ingrained into him from his lifetime in the military. 

Sansa breathed a sigh of relief. She knew, even with his fist cocked back, he would not take it further. 

After a time Clegane lowered his fist, picked the boy up by his t-shirt and walked him back to where Sansa and Brienne were standing. 

“Apologize!” Clegane’s tone was ominous, scary enough that Sansa found herself clearing her throat.

The teen mumbled something that could have been an apology, or the ramblings of a person with a mild concussion. Sansa’s eyes shifted to Clegane, silently asking him if it was really necessary to go through the whole thing. 

“The police have been called,” Brienne cautioned, in a tone that might have implied Sandor should refrain from any further violence. 

Sandor nodded, pushing the young man to his knees with his accomplice. “I’ll stay, wait for the uniforms to show up. Take her inside, make sure she’s not hurt.”

It wasn’t until he said that, that Sansa realized she was standing on one heel, the other lay tipped to the side on the sidewalk. Her phone was easy to find in the concrete jungle, the screen obviously cracked even from where she stood, with the sun reflecting off it. The attack had been unexpected, had come from nothing, and in a flash the tide had turned. She had been lucky they were just some kids looking for trouble and not an assassin set on letting her bleed out in the parking lot of an office building. 

“Come, my Lady.” Brienne offered, putting her hand on Sansa’s shoulder and leading her briskly toward the side door. Kicking off her heel and picking up both her phone and her other shoe off the floor, Sansa couldn’t help but look back at Clegane. 

Their eyes met and she felt an unbid pang between her legs. Perhaps it had just been so long since a man had looked at her like he was, with unyielding desire. He could take it if he wanted to, Sansa knew she would be helpless against his size and strength. It made her wonder if the violence within him had ever bled over into  _ that  _ aspect of his life. She hoped not, yet the very idea of finding out gave her a twinge of excitement. Before she knew it, the flash of emotion in his eyes was gone, replaced by his usual impenetrable soldier's gaze. They fixed on her until she could no longer see them, until the door to her office building shut behind her, saving her from her dark instincts.


	7. On the Edge of Relapse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor fights his old demons, while getting closer to Sansa Stark than he could have dreamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter up! I hope you enjoy it!

#  Chapter 7: On the Edge of Relapse

Sandor didn’t remember how the phone had gotten in his hand, or even who he was calling. All he could hear were the deep tones of the other line ringing. Ringing into the unknown. He had lost it back there. He’d gone to a dark place, a place where he used to live and function almost normally. The sweet rush of rage, the anger that had welled up inside of him had sideswiped Sandor, caught him off guard in a way he was not accustomed to. There was something familiar about that place, something inviting and drew him in, dared him to venture into that downward spiral of pain and hurt all over again. 

Part of him had wanted to see that kid’s blood spattered all over the concrete floor, to not stop until there was no more movement. Part of him wanted to break the chains, end his slavery to the violence that had followed him most of his life. It had all happened so fast, he hadn’t even thought about what he was doing before Sansa had called out to him. Her voice had cut through the darkness, had woken him from his rage. Simply knowing  _ it _ was still inside of him had put Clegane in a daze. This incident made him question everything he had worked so hard for.

“Dr. Poole, hello?” Came the all too familiar voice from the other end. 

_ Of course! Like a good dog I do what I’m told, call my shrink when I’m in a pinch.  _ Anger boiled inside of him, only just falling short of the surface. Sandor could have turned defeat into victory by dealing with this himself, by going through the steps he had so painstakingly learned over the last years. Overcoming this incident alone would have been a triumph, proof that he could function in the civilian world. His failure to deal with it alone was an affirmation that he was wrong--a sign he was weak.

Weak was even too kind a word for what he was,  _ A coward, a craven _ .

After a long, uncomfortable pause, Sandor spoke. “It’s me.”

She knew his voice of course, had listened to countless hours of him talking about his deepest darkest secrets--well some of them anyway. There were some things better left boxed inside, some things that defined you even if society thought they were wrong, or evil. As a principle Sandor felt it disingenuous to deny who he was, but he needed to ensure he wasn’t a threat to himself or others. 

That was why he had called her.

“Captain Clegane, it’s good to hear from you. It’s been so long.” She was trying to be upbeat, trying to act as if nothing was wrong, as if he often called her out of the blue just to shoot the shit. While her methods had somehow been effective, Sandor had always felt that her understanding of the demands of military life were clinical, at best.  _ Probably from the movies,  _ he had always told himself.  _ No one can understand that state of mind unless you’ve lived it, so I can’t begrudge her that--as much as I want to. _

When he didn’t say anything, mostly because he was paralized to do so, she picked up the conversation. She was accustomed to doing this in his sessions, to the point that it almost felt natural. “Tell me what happened. Do you need me to come get you?”

“No,” he breathed, “I’m ok. But you said if  _ it  _ happened again to call, and here I am.” There was no emotion in his voice, and Sandor thanked the gods for small victories. He didn’t want to betray how fragile he was right now, even to her.

“Does somebody else need to go to the hospital?” She asked with a bit more concern in her voice. She was acutely aware of what he could do, and Sandor could sense her fear of him, even when she was trying to overcome it with professional distance. 

He snorted, “No, he’s been picked up by the cops.”

“The job, huh?” she said more knowingly than Sandor would have liked. After a long breath she continued, “Don’t worry, Clegane, I’m not keeping tabs on you, but I saw you on the news. Working as a bodyguard to one of the most divisive politicians in all of Westeros wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I advised you to get back to work.”

Sandor took a deep breath, “Yeah I know, but I’m good at it. Never been good at anything in my life, except this. So I put myself in the situation knowing what could happen.”

“You put yourself  _ and  _ others in that situation. The only difference is they don’t know what you are capable of, don’t know when you might relapse.” Her voice had turned that of a teacher, giving a student some slap on the wrist.  _ She’s braver when we’re not in the same room together,  _ Sandor mused, feeling his thought capacity come back. He almost felt like contradicting her, telling her that of all people Lady Stark seemed to be attuned to what he was, and what he could be,  _ And she’s not afraid of me either. _

“I also have to face my fears, live with what is inside of me, with what I’ve done and might do again. It’s good for me to get out of the house, to use what the gods gave me for something other than bench pressing.” He was trying to lighten the mood, thinking now it wasn’t the best idea to have called his therapist,  _ Or was it? _

“You’re right. We all have to navigate ourselves, and we can’t run from who we are. I just wish you had waited before rushing back into the fire again, but then that wouldn’t be you, would it?” Sandor could sense the tone in her voice change with the realization that he hadn’t simply been spitting back to her what she wanted to hear in their sessions, but actually listening and “processing” it, as she liked to put it. 

“I’m glad you called,” she began again, “it’s normal that we fall back into old habits, overlook things that set us off, discover new triggers…” she trailed off for a moment to find the right words. “What changes us, makes us better is stopping the cycle--and now we’re here.”

“Yeah,” he answered, “and now we’re here.”

There was a long silence on the phone as he collected himself. From the day he was born, Sandor had always felt discarded, damaged. He had come to understand that this played out in his violent interactions -- that he capitalized on what he was physically capable of for his own profit. He used his size and physique as a way to make himself indispensable to others. The more violent he was, the more praise he recieved. The need to be praised, to be told how good of a boy he was, had led to this. It had put him on a path toward his own destruction long before he could fend for himself. 

This thing he had done, the innocent people he had murdered--they hadn’t deserved it.  _ And neither did that kid, but I did it all the same.  _ Sandor could forgive himself for the things he had done before, blind violence where there had been no understanding. But now that he knew better, he realized how shitty relapse could feel. And he didn’t want to do it again.

“Thank you, Dr. Poole,” he breathed, then hung up the phone before she could say anything more.

Rubbing his beard, Sandor felt his shoulders relax a bit.  _ I did it for her, not for me,  _ he realized looking into the mirror of the men’s bathroom that had been vacated for his convenience. 

He’d done it for Sansa Stark, and not out of sim misguided loyalty to the state, or for the promise of getting rich, but because he wanted to. Sandor had wanted that boy to hurt, needed to satisfy his primal urge to obliterate any danger to her--and the possible reasons for this strong reaction made him feel uneasy. It was different from what he had experienced before, his acts of violence had always been so self serving, but this one had sprung out of a completely new feeling--one he had never felt before.

There was still blood on his face, and his suit stunk to the seven heavens, but that didn’t stop him from taking a moment to think about what had just happened.Sansa Stark had gotten under his skin, there was no question there. But just how far, had been a topic he was unwilling to confront, until now. 

Nothing had ever mattered to Sandor, except for food and shut-eye. He did what was ordered, and he did it above and beyond expectation. That had been his whole life, his whole world. He was a grown man and he had never once acted on his own, in defense of something he believed in, or someone he...  _ No, now you’ve gone too far, Clegane. _

Opening the tap and letting some of the warm water flow, Sandor studied his face in the bathroom mirror. It was a disaster, one only a mother could love--and he couldn’t even have been sure of that. Yet the Lady Stark seemed curious about him, intrigued, but for what reasons he could not say--nor did he have the mind to fathom it. She was not like most women he knew. Sansa carried a strength with her that few men could have rivaled. Yet inside there was a fragility about her, a hint of that young woman who would rather follow her dreams than be a slave to her family legacy. They shared common ground there--wanting to break free of responsibility or character.

Perhaps not everybody had noticed this about the Lady Stark, but Sandor had. The nervousness she had before a speech, the intensity with which she felt for people, and against them. She wasn’t meant for where she was--and Sandor could only imagine how uncomfortable that must feel for her, even if she didn’t know it yet. More than most, Sandor knew what it was like to lie to yourself everyday, say that you were fine,  _ She’s a ticking time bomb, but at least she doesn’t have a gun in her hand _ .

Wiping the blood away from his face, Sandor chuckled at his own dark humor. He was slowly beginning to feel better, calming himself down to a manageable level. Finally he could bring himself to remove his clothing, peeling the bloody, rotten, yoke soaked fabric from his skin and rubbing himself down with a small rag and some soap Brienne had given him.  _ It’s not a shower but then again, it’s better than anything we got out on assignment,  _ he thought, looking back on his days in the special forces. 

His eyes glanced over at the fresh suit hanging on a towel dispenser. If there was one thing Bronn had gotten right, it was catering to high enough dollar clients that they could afford to have a second suit waiting for him to wear if, “things got messy.” Shaking his head at the very thought of what “messy” could look like, Sandor then dunked his head in the water that had accumulated in the sink. He gently ran his fingers through his hair, making sure there was no more rotten egg or shell pieces left. 

He looked at himself in the mirror in that stern kind of way a father ought to, “You pull yourself together, one of you unhinged is enough!” He was referring to Sansa of course. He knew she was on the edge, only because he’d been there before. He couldn’t explain it other than to say, you had to hit rock bottom yourself in order to understand the kind of denial and pain somebody felt on their journey. 

Sandor didn’t ponder this thought long, putting on his pants and pulling his new, white dress shirt over his shoulders. About then he could hear the door open, the sound of high heels permeated the quiet of the empty men’s bathroom. Sandor turned, his eyes meeting her Ladyship’s instantly.

There was a moment of utter silence, as they both realized the situation they were in. Sandor had his fly open, his suit pants just hanging on his hips waiting for his shirt to be tucked in. He knew his tightly packed junk, which strained against his high cut briefs, was prominently on display. He almost laughed out loud nervously thinking of how eye catching the red fabric must have been against the background of what was otherwise a boring navy colored suit. Sandor was still grasping either side of his open dress shirt, the hair of his chest unavoidable given how much of his upper body could be seen. 

For as sensitive as Sandor was about the scarring on his face, he had never been shy with his body. It was his asset both in his work and with the opposite sex, something he had counted on to get him out of a pinch, or snag a girl that was way out of his league. With Lady Stark, however, it was different. There was not this typical boost of male pride that welled up inside of him as her eye lingered below his belt, taking its time to wander up to his eyes. Sandor was by no means ashamed, but he despised being caught off guard--being made vulnerable. 

Turning around as if he were a maid caught kissing a boy, Sandor took a moment to collect himself. His large fingers fumbled with the buttons ineptly, he could feel a little sweat forming on his forehead,  _ I’m not some green boy on his first date, I’m her fucking head of security.  _ Sandor reminded himself, doing his best to separate his feelings about to from his position. 

Though try as he might, there seemed to be little he could do to dodge her. Checking in the mirror over the sink, his back now to Sansa, he could still see her watching him in the mirror with an interest that went beyond their professional relationship. It only surprised Sandor further, because women of her standing were more apt to follow manners and decorum. That was what made them different from dogs like him, they followed society’s rules, restrained themselves when it came to their baser instincts. Yet she was not. Though her cheeks had slightly reddened at the sight of his partially naked body, her eyes bore into him with a look he had not noticed her giving him before, but now he wondered if he had just never noticed. 

_ Payback for the rearview mirror earlier today?  _ He teased himself, but quickly spoke up all the same.

“Ma’am, I didn’t mean to take so much time…” Sandor searched her reflection in the mirror, trying to make sense of what was going on in those eyes. He found nothing.

“It’s alright, Clegane. If anything I should be the one apologizing for not knocking first.” There was a sly gruffness to her voice that indicated she was, in fact, not sorry for walking in on him. If anything it could have been planned. Sandor knew her to be cunning, but didn’t feel observing him changing in the men’s room qualified as worthy of her time.

His silence made her speak again, “I have another meeting and I wanted to thank you before the day got away from me, so it couldn’t wait.”

It was a piss poor excuse in his mind. It wasn’t as if he wouldn’t have caught up with her schedule anyway, relieved Breinne of her duties once he was suited up again. At this Sandor turned, attending to his cuffs while he replied, “No need to thank me, ma’am. It’s what I’m paid for.”

Perhaps that had come out wrong, his attempt to put her at ease somehow misguided. There was a flash of hurt on her face, something she would have normally hidden from him and anybody else around. 

“Yes, you’re right,” she looked a bit deflated as she agreed with him, “but you took great care with me and I appreciate that.” Her voice lowered as she said it, almost in a whisper. Realizing the situation was only becoming more awkward between them, Lady Stark pulled at her blouse nervously in an attempt to cover up her lack of words.

The silence was deafening as Sandor fumbled with his tie. He was never good at putting them on, even less so under her penetrating gaze. “That suit is ruined,” she began, searching to continue the conversation with him after it had reached its natural end. “This is the card to my tailor, please pick whatever you want. I insist you spare no expense. I can only imagine every suit you own must have to be personally made.” 

There was something in the way she said the last part of her sentence that gave Sandor pause. It felt flirtatious, even if there were no classic hair flicks or the batting of eyelashes. Indeed this entire moment was out of character for her, different from what he had experienced in his short tenure as part of her security detail. There was nothing standard about this woman, that was what made her so captivating--even worth fighting for. 

Sandor looked at her hand as if it had sprouted fangs. Not that he was weary of gifts, but there was no need for something like that just based on a couple of rotten eggs. In truth he was unaccustomed to being accosted in a bathroom by a woman less than half his size, cornered, and pursued. There was no playbook for this, no past experiences for Sandor to capitalize on--and improvising with women wasn’t his strong suit. 

Sensing he would reject her offer, she crossed the bathroom to him. This sudden movement made him take a step back, his backside pressing against the bathroom sink. “Please take it,” she pressed the card into his chest and blushed even more than before--her eyes never wavering from his own. “It’s the least I can do.”

Her hands then went to straighten his tie, and Sandor nearly flinched -- but stopped himself. He’d seen too many hangings in his day, too much mob justice to like the idea of putting something willingly so tight around his neck. So he never wore that shit, unless he was in his formals, or for this job. Her closeness made Sandor’s skin prickle, and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It took an immense amount of trust not to pull away, not to lash out.

There was something in Sansa’s eyes, along with the gentle pressure she applied to his chest that kept him focused on her. It gave him the feeling she would rather push him against the sink of the bathroom and kiss him than fumble with his tie--yet neither one of them made a move. The only sound in the empty men’s room was their breathing, and the pounding of Sandor’s heart in his ears.  _ How many nights have I wanted her to kiss me? How many times had I hoped she was a little devil in the sack and now, I’m chicken shit to take a chance. _

In that very moment something changed in her, as if she had finally become conscious of how inappropriate their lack of distance was. Abruptly taking a step back--as if she’d crossed some sort of imaginary boundary and was afraid of the consequences--Lady Stark cleared her throat and crossed her hands primly in front of her. 

“I’ve dropped the charges against the two boys from earlier today, and will pay the hospital bills of the older one,” there were no accusations in her voice, she said the words very matter of factly. 

When Sandor made a move to speak she cut him off, in the way he was accustomed to seeing her do with others. “You did nothing wrong, Clegane. We could not have known what their intentions were, or if there was something more sinister afoot.”

Clegane nodded, ensuring he adjusted his shoulder holster properly and put his ear piece in place. Turning it on, Sandor put on his suit jacket and buttoned it in the front. Her words did make him feel better about what had happened, but it didn’t erase the shame of losing to his instinct. Letting it control him.

“I’ve had some things pushed back,” she continued. “Baelish now wants to have dinner and everything is on high alert,” she seemed annoyed at the very thought of having dinner with her advisor. “I hope you don’t mind working a little later this evening. I imagine you probably have somebody to go home to, I…”

“It’s fine, ma’am. Take the time you need,” Sandor swore he could detect a small grin on her face at his words, at the indication he was single--but he couldn’t be sure. Either way what would it matter? She was spoken for, dating one of the most famous movie stars in Westeros. Her Ladyship was capable of many things, but certainly not adding to the tabloid press by having some sort of whirlwind romance with a dog like him. 

_ And don’t you forget that,  _ he scolded himself. 

“Shall I escort you to your meeting, my Lady?” Sandor stood upright as he often did, trying to recover his footing that she had so adeptly swept him from.

She smiled slightly and nodded, “Yes, please.”

“Little Bird, on her way to the north end of the building, floor 2,” he said and he could hear Bronn chuckling over the coms. There was a pang in his gut at the thought of what he had overheard or what he knew. Sandor had been pretty sure the ear piece was off but now, how sure was he.

Pushing it from his mind, for now, Sandor opened the door to the men’s room and escorted Sansa Stark to her next meeting. The day had already started with a bang, and he could only wonder how it would continue.


	8. Straight to the Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa gets caught up in political dealings, while Sandor hits out at her one sore spot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been quite a crazy thing to write. I'm loving the challenge of making a story, hating the long revision times :-) Hopefully this one can be enjoyed. The next chapter will be more light hearted and should provoke some good laughs.

#  Chapter 8: Straight to the Heart

Having pushed food around her plate most of the evening, Sansa was in no mood to listen to Lord Baelish pontificate. Without surprise, this evening had been dedicated to him professing to be her knight in shining armor, fighting back those in the government and media who would attempt to besmudge her honor. She groaned to herself, while smiling at him. It was never easy with Petyr. Her mother’s childhood friend often went from treating her like a daughter to flirting with her, and it was unsettling to the point that she wanted to throw up. 

Sansa was no fool. She knew the difference between his “fatherly advice” and his “sexually suggestive” remarks, but she pretended as if she did not. More than anything, it gnawed at her that she didn’t speak up as she had to Lord Tywin. Unwanted advances and seuxally suggestive language were rampant in the capital. Under normal circumstances Sansa wouldn’t tolerate such behavior from anybody, but Lord Baelish was different from other men. He was powerful and could make or break a politician with a few phone calls. 

Also, she needed him if she was going to put the ghosts of her family to rest. Sansa had always been convinced there was foul play in the deaths of her parents and siblings, and she doubted that Robb’s assassin had been acting alone. That made her a conspiracy theorist in the eyes of many, and there was not a soul in King’s Landing who would reopen these cases on a biased suspicion. Lord Baelish’s connections were necessary if she were going to make the impossible possible. 

So she allowed things to slide, bit her tongue when she needed to, and smiled when she had to. 

But she didn't like it.

If anything, her adoring Petyr had his hands in so many dirty endeavors throughout the Seven Kingdoms that he should probably be put in jail. Yet, no matter how hard she searched or who she talked to, his dealings were only whispers and conjecture. Murmurs of his intelligence gathering through the many brothels he owned around the city ensured his position as one of the most feared men in government. Had Sansa known this when she took office, she would have tried to distance herself from him. She would have tried to reduce how intertwined their fates would become. But it was too late for that. 

Lord Baelish had come to her aid in a time where she was mourning the death of her brother, and reliving the loss of her family. She’d been foolish then. A young northern Lady who had never seen much outside of Winterfell and the surrounding areas. She had been unaware of what lurked behind his well dressed charm. 

_ Now I need him for my very survival,  _ she lamented.

“More champagne, my dear?” he offered her, putting on his most debonair smile. Sansa nodded, using all of her energy to maintain appearances.

It was always the same with him when it came to their dinner meetings. Lord Baelish would invite her to the most expensive restaurant in the city, and lavish her with wine and attention. Of course he would mainly talk about himself. How good he was at his job, how expensive his parties were, which she never attended, how amazing of a business man he was. Sansa had to listen to two hours of crap just to get to the couple of interesting tidbits she needed. 

His presence was soul sucking, and she just wanted to go home. 

By the time they made it through the appetizer and to the main course, he had finally moved on to the scolding part of their dinner. “My dear, _ ” _ he began, a smile spreading across his face that was more condecening than empathy building. “It’s just not very becoming of a lady to say such things. The public holds you to a higher standard because of your sex. If nothing else, you must use this to your advantage.”

The end of his sentence was so suggestive that it made her want to melt into her seat. Blinking a few times just to make sure she heard correctly, then turning her lips into something she hoped was a smile, Sansa stuffed some beef in her mouth to avoid telling him what she was thinking. 

_ You can shove it up your ass too!  _ She nearly snorted at the thought.

If there was one thing that didn’t help you in King’s Landing, it was being a woman. Sansa had learned that the hard way. What had started as a wide-eyed and honest commitment to having her voice heard in the government, had turned into a frustrating climb any say or inch of power. The government of Westeros was built by and for the male high lords. The way they talked, what they did, how they ruled -- everything. 

She wanted to be different--and she wanted to be herself at the same time. Being controversial, not being quiet when they expected her to be, was one of those ways she fought them. It wasn’t the easiest or most popular road, she agreed with Lord Baelish on this, but it was the only way. So in the end it didn’t surprise her that she had death threats, that kids would throw eggs at her. 

_ Perhaps it's a sign I’m doing something right, shaking things up. Who knows? _

By the time dessert had rolled around, Lord Baelish then began the final phase of all their dinner discussions, where he made sure she knew just how much he was helping her and what it would cost. “I’ll need you to do some favors for me,” he would always grin like a cheshire cat then, knowing she would not and could not refuse him. “Then I’ll call my friends in the press office and straighten this whole thing out. The whole incident with the boy today, it too can just vanish”

Of all the things, that was not what she wanted to discuss. Sansa had hidden it well from everybody around her, but the attack had made her feel vulnerable. She had not lied to Sandor when she told him she wasn’t upset by his actions, those boys could have had guns.  _ One of them could have shot me, and left me for dead in the parking lot. Like they did Robb. _

Petyr’s words shook her from her dark thoughts. “It seems that brutish, unrefined thug is at least earning his keep,” Lord Baelish snickered at his own joke and sipped his champagne. 

_ Sandor,  _ her eyes glanced toward her menacing bodyguard, standing several meters away from them. His back to the wall, his eyes in constant surveillance of the room.  _ Places like this must be a nightmare for him,  _ she thought looking around at a restaurant filled to the brim with people, where there were multiple entry and exit points. 

_ Even in a place like this, with every man in a suit and tie, he stands out,  _ her eye lingered on him for a while longer, the side of her mouth curling slightly at the thought of him in his underwear. It was a sight she would not soon forget, nor did she want to.

_ Is it possible he’s even more fit than when he was in the military?  _ She had only glimpsed his body, her head of security turning around faster than she would have expected to spare her his nudity. There had been something cute about it, something that had pushed her to move even closer to him.

_ I don’t know what came over me then, only that I felt a spark between us.  _ In all honesty she was glad nothing had happened, glad they had both shown restraint. There was something so intriguing about him, that she knew it would be hard to control herself in his arms.. 

“Sansa, are you even listening, my dear?” Pytre’s voice jogged her from her daydream. 

“Sorry, it’s been a long day,” she replied absent mindedly. 

“What I was saying was,” and he took her hands in his as if they were dating. Sansa knew better than to pull back, but that didn’t mean she felt comfortable with it either. 

She looked into his eyes, wanting to be sure not to miss something. “I know Harry’s been absent. Standing up your invitations to stay here. So, perhaps, you could come with me to my lake house this weekend? It’s a holiday, you could come up tomorrow and stay through Monday.”

“I...uh…”Sansa was shocked by his forwardness, there was no pretense of working or getting a campaign together. He was asking her on a date, and not just for dinner, in public, where she knew he would have to be on his best behavior. The way his index finger stroked her hand was an overt request for intimacy. One she would not soon fill.

Without another thought, Sansa quickly pulled her hands from his, as if they had been burned, “You know, I’m just…”she was searching for an excuse. Not an honest one, just something he would believe.

“I’m so broken up that Harry is acting this way. Crying a lot,” she felt almost sick painting this picture of a helpless woman. But she pushed through, “I just need more time to collect myself, Petyr. I think I’d be such a burden on you…”

Lord Baelish merely smiled, but only because he knew she was attempting to weasel out, to push away his advances. He was a sly old fox, and knew with time she would run out of excuses on day. He was not the kind of predator that struck hard and fast, but rather wrapped his way around his prey quietly, then squeezed the life out of them. 

“I understand, Sweetling,” he said, and Sansa felt relieved. For as much as she despised his methods, she still needed something from him. “Just remember that my door is always open, and, when you do finally come to your senses, I’ll be there to comfort you--as I did your mother.”

Sansa didn't like it when he spoke of her mother, it touched something inside of her that was angry and outraged.  _ Calm yourself,  _ she said. 

“Your friend at the Palace of Justice was very helpful, I wanted to thank you.” Sansa put on her most precious smile. Just as she had suspected, it knocked Lord Baelish from his high horse, because he nearly spit out his wine when she said it. 

One hand always washed the other in King’s Landing. It was impossible to live there, and work in the government, without being exposed to it. When she’d come here, Sansa had wide-eyed ideas of how things worked. Not just in the capital, but in the world. It had taken her a lot of soul searching to even consider using her position and power to get the cases of her family’s car accident, and the assassination of Robb reopened. But she was driven to know, motivated to find out the real reason why. Not willing to believe they were mere coincidences.

_ Petyr never thought I’d charm his friend, much less have the balls to stick my neck out. But he underestimated how much I want this.  _ All of the evidence in both cases was sealed and classified, a heavy impediment to finding new evidence so they could be reinvestigated. Once she had understood she needed both the chicken, in the guise of new evidence, and the egg in an increased security clearance, it had not been difficult to fill in the blanks. Both had their prices. Both would take her a step further.  _ Does the good outweigh the bad? Only time will tell. _

In the end she had come out better than expected. Lord Baelish’s judge would grant her access under his name and promised to look further into the cases if she found something in the evidence. In return, Sansa would introduce him to some of the highlords she knew. It was easy to forget that she’d grown up on the knee of some of the most powerful men in Westeros, and their ears were valuable. It had made her feel dirty to do it, to know that she had possibly set things in motion that were irreversible.  _ It’s selfish, I know. But if something comes of it, won’t it be worth it? _

“Oh and, uh, what did he say?” Lord Baelish leaned in a bit.

“I had my page pick up the evidence boxes today. The volume of documents and personal effects is overwhelming,” she paused, “but as you’ve so rightly pointed out, I have a lot of time on my hands with Harry in Dorne.”

“He gave you access to both?” Lord Baelish’s voice seemed to take a higher pitch as he asked. 

Sansa nodded, studying his tells as carefully as she could. Lord Baelish was a difficult man to read, one who rarely allowed anybody to see the real person behind the silks and heavy cologne. But he’d slipped. A twitch in his lips, the slight change in the pitch of his voice, Sansa had unsettled him. That too brought with it a price.

“Well,” he began, recomposing himself, “classified files go missing in this town regularly. So keep them close,” his voice was a whisper, as if anybody around them could be spies. 

Petyr was the only person who knew what was in those evidence boxes--now strewn the office of her tiny apartment. While Sansa had hoped it wasn’t true, she couldn’t help but wonder if the break-in to her home had been triggered by something else. It was almost too easy to say it was a robbery, or a political zealot. Lord Baelish had always discouraged her from digging around in the past, and it had left her asking why.  _ He knows something more, and won’t tell me. Is he protecting me? Is he covering something up? _

Sansa’s feelings could have gone either way, as Lord Baelish was so secretive about his affairs. There was little time to dwell on this thought, it wasn’t a moment later that she felt the alcohol hit her. Too little food and a bit too much to drink was never a good combination.  _ I need to get out of here. _

“I really must be going home, Petyr. It’s so late and I am truly exhausted,” Sansa blew him air kisses even if they annoyed her. Before he could protest, Sansa stood up from the table. She could see Sandor straighten out of the corner of her eye, and knew he was as ready to get out of there as she was. 

There was no ignoring his menacing presence behind her. Everybody crowding the walkways moved so they could get through. Sandor’s gentle hand on the small of her back made her weak in the knees. 

It didn’t take long before they made it through the parking lot and to her small black Mercedes. “Is everything alright, my Lady?” Sandor asked, opening the passenger side door for her. 

Sansa knew instantly what he was referring to, knew nothing ever escaped his view. Her discomfort with Lord Baelish was more obvious than she had hoped, and yet she didn’t mind talking with him about it. She was glad actually.

Sandor got in on the driver’s side. “It’s…” Sansa struggled against the feel of the alcohol to find the words she wanted to say,”I’m just tired of swallowing what I want to say because Petyr has money and power.”

“Mmmm,” he breathed, starting the car. “I could give him a lesson in manners, ma’am.”

He was serious and it almost made her blush. He had noticed, he cared, and he was willing to stick up for her. Not that she couldn’t do it for herself, but it was just so complicated. Sansa smiled, and she felt her body relax, “I appreciate your protective nature, Clegane. But I need there to be something left of him when you’re finished.”

He smiled, and Sansa’s heart sang. It felt good to have a little banter, she hadn’t enjoyed that since Robb died. Not daring to look him in the eye with the blush she felt spreading across her cheeks, Sansa stared straight ahead. Theirs was a comfortable silence, neither one needing to fill the void with talk. She needed that silence more than she knew,  _ And I need him too. _

The alcohol wasn’t helping this line of thought, if anything it made her feelings more acute. The talk at dinner, the attack of today made void left by her family and Harry sting all the more. It was a pain she always carried with her. Some days were easier than others--but today was not one of them. Sansa realized this as she watched the big lights of King’s Landing fly by from the passenger seat of her car. She was doing everything she could to keep it together, to function. And it was hard.

They arrived at her apartment in good time, Sandor keeping a watchful eye while she got out of the car. As usual, he opened her apartment and did his cursory searches. All the while she warred within herself about what to do. Part of her needed peace, part of her didn’t want him to go. She was lonely, upset, and she was drunk. It was an explosive combination, particularly after what she had glimpsed earlier today.

“Alright, ma’am. It’s all clear.” Clegane was getting ready to leave, and her mouth just opened. 

“How about a nightcap?” Sansa blurted out, realizing that her good sense had not won out.  _ Damn this alcohol! _

Clegane didn’t hide the surprise on his face. He’d been securing her apartment for months and she’d never said more than a few words to him while he did it. Now she was asking him to stay.  _ Gods he must be so confused. _

“It’s been rude of me to not get to know you better these last months. I realized today what it actually means to do your job and I…” she trailed off a moment not sure what she could say that wasn’t considered rambling by a sober person, “I thought we could just, talk.”

When his expression didn’t change and their lingering in her entryway had become uncomfortable, Sansa added, “You can ask me questions too, of course. I never give open ended interviews,” she said with a smile, “but I’ll make an exception tonight.” 

_ Oh gods, is this actually coming out of my mouth? I’m flirting with him, and shamelessly too! _

Yet it seemed too late to stop her momentum, “You can ask me anything, if I get to ask you anything back.” Her brain was going for a great distraction. Distraction from the world, from the stress of her job, from the events of the day. She was doing what she always did, pushing the negative feelings deeper inside--and finding something else to interest her. 

_ What am I having? A sleepover for twelve year old girls where we play truth or dare?  _ Anything she said to her bodyguard was as if they didn’t speak the same language.  _ Am I slurring?  _ She wondered, about to panic at what an idiot she was making of herself. 

The next words that came out of his mouth surprised her, “I can stay for a drink, ma’am.”

Sansa couldn’t hide the smile on her face, but did her best to play it cool. “Excellent. Well you’re off duty now, Clegane. So please, call me Sansa.” 

He nodded, taking a seat on the couch. He was trying to look relaxed but failing miserably. Or perhaps it was just that she’d never seen such a big man sit on her couch before and it made the whole room look out of proportion and awkward. 

Grinning at her guest she spoke, “I assume you’re a whiskey man?”

“Aye,” he answered. 

Sansa rummaged around her liquor cabinet until she dug out a bottle of whiskey she had pushed to the back. She was not a huge fan of the drink, but Robb and her father had been. So part of her kept it out of rememberance. 

“Will a single malt, northern highland whisky do? The Night King was my father’s favorite.” It was a good distillery, and not easy to find so far south.

Clegane merely nodded, and that put her at ease. Sansa hadn’t realized how nervous it made her to make him feel comfortable in her small home. It was a giddy sort of nervousness, the kind you feel when you go on a date for the first time, or when you kiss a guy for the first time. Inhaling a bit Sansa had to remind herself that nothing of the sort would happen this night. She was spoken for, so to kiss another man would be wrong. In addition, Sansa had to remind herself that he could just be staying to be polite, perhaps he even felt sorry for her.  _ Gods I hope not. _

Pouring him two fingers worth of the thick brown liquid for him, Sansa poured a more modest portion for herself. Sansa handed the tumbler to him, and watched as he eyed her generous portion appreciatively.

There was pregnant silence, as Sansa settled on her overstuffed chair. She didn’t dare share the couch with him, the pull to rip the shirt from his body was too great. Being around him was a test for her resolve, a way to remind her that she did have some kind of control over herself. 

Doing her best to act natural, Sansa sipped her glass a moment, gaining what bit of dornish courage she could before filling the air with her words. “Shall I ask first?”

Sansa couldn’t say what it was about Sandor’s stare that always made her feel naked. Most people looked at her and stopped at the surface, accepting her no nonsense attitude and her smart suits as the person she was. Sandor on the other hand, seemed wholly uninterested in that. When he looked at her, his eyes did what they could to drill into her. They did what they could to flake her outer layers away, their mission to view her most protected inner depths. She wondered if he looked at everybody like this, or just her.

_ I hope it’s just me,  _ she thought selfishly.

She couldn’t doddle though, the longer she gave him to look at her uninterrupted, the more chance he had to peer deeper into her soul. “Your military record is so heavily classified, I don’t even know which side of the civil war you fought on.”

Post civil war talks were always difficult in Westeros. It had been bloody and painful for the population, but of course everybody knew which side Sansa’s family had fought on. They had supported Robert Baratheon, even if now Sansa was at odds with his son. Who you supported in that time, what you did during the fighting, were all topics better left dead. But Clegane had been a military man, he had been ordered to fight. That didn’t mean he had taken sides at all, and this intrigued Sansa. 

Taking a swig of whiskey, her large bodyguard grinned, “And you never will, I don’t think your security clearance goes that high.”

She lifted an eyebrow at his cheeky remark. He wouldn’t have dared say anything to her like that whilst on duty. Yet the message was clear, whether he fought on the side of the Targarians or aided in the coup against them, would be something to discuss once they knew each other better.  _ Or if I rise in the ranks. _

“Fine. So then answer me this.” Sansa sized her up, enjoying their mental volly, “Where did your scarring come from?” She honed in on his eyes, looking for any indication that her forwardness surprised him. Perhaps the pulse in his neck quickend, but otherwise he kept cool.

Seeing this wasn’t an off limits topic for him, she continued, “It wasn’t from the military, though I guess most assume that.” Sansa ran her finger around the rim of her glass, curious as to how her unshakable bodyguard would react. 

“Yeah it’s not from the military,” he started, his voice deep and gravely. When he stopped there she shot him a look as if his mere confirmation wasn’t enough. 

A sip of his glass bought the big man across from her some time to collect himself. “I grew up in Flea Bottom, but I guess you know that.” She could see he was uncomfortable with her knowing all these things about him, though she was sure he had a file on her too. 

“My mother hawked street food on a couple of corners, cooked it on an open flame for the couple of silver pieces she might get a day.”

Sansa could now feel her pulse quicken as her mind went to where this could take them. Flea bottom, open flame, she could put two and two together to make a hundred. She felt ashamed she had asked, but it was too late to go back now. Sansa steeled herself for what she was about to hear, hoping her emotions would not be heightened from the amount of drink she had consumed that evening.

“I was five or so, too young to remember what I did to piss my brother off,” his voice was even. His calm doing more to heighten her pulse than if he had been emotional about it. Sansa felt her stomach lurch. 

“Only that he pushed my face into that flame and there was no good reason for it,” his eyes were on her and they made her feel so heavy. 

Her hand came to her mouth in surprise. “I’m so sorry I….”

Snador cut her off. It wasn’t rude, more to stop her from feeling sorry for him. “He got his, in the war. So it’s not like there’s no justice in the world.” There was a somber silence in the room, making it hard for Sansa to know how to fill it. 

Her mind was racing with all the things she had just learned about him. He’d had to live with a constant reminder of his attacker his entire life. No matter what anybody said, Sandor’s scaring defined him. In how people reacted to him, what they thought about him, how he reacted to the world. She could connect with that, though they had come from very different places. Each day she woke up and saw a younger version of her mother staring back at her. Every day she went to work she felt the burden of her name and her father and oldest brother.

“Perhaps you could take me there one day?” she said, wanting to fill the silence again. There were two motivations of course, one she could tell him and one she could not. The more Sansa found out about Sandor, the more he let her in, the more she wanted to experience his life. Seeing his roots, understanding where he came from did that. On the other hand, her what little she knew about the last days of her father and brother were making it more and more clear that she needed to go there.

“To Flea Bottom?” he nearly spat out his drink.

“Yeah, I’d like to see it, understand more what can be done to help the people there.” Sansa was normally good at lying, at least making it reasonable. But not with Sandor, as she quickly found out. 

He shot her a suspicious glance, “No, it’s no place for a photo op.”

“It’s not a photo op I’m after, it’s…forget it,” Sansa thought better than to tell Sandor part of the reason she was keen to go there. From the time she had started to poke around in the capitol about family, had been the time that the threats, and break in had happened. While some might have attributed that to her controversial positions on politics, Sansa had always felt it was linked to something more, to something darker.

Sansa felt like she was drowning and knew she needed to do something fast. With another sip of whiskey she attempted to save their wilting conversation. “Well I’m sure you have a question for me,” she smiled, leaning her head back and to the side. Sansa knew better than to flight her sleepiness this way, but it was the only option. “I promise I’ll answer truthfully.”

He stared at her a long while, not because he was searching for a question, more because he was trying to see how to ask it. She waited patiently, her insides churning. It only hit her then that it hadn’t been a good idea to allow Sandor to ask her something personal. For having spoken so little, he seemed to know much more about her than she did about him. 

There was no disappointment when he did finally speak, “When do you think you’ll give up this whole political charade? It’s not you.”

_ Straight to the heart,  _ Sansa thought, feeling gut punched at his words. As far as everybody was concerned, Sansa was the vision of how a young politician could make a splash in two short years. She was a role model for some, hated by others. But there was nobody in the capital who would question her drive in politics. Nobody except Sandor Clegane.

“I don’t know what you mean, I…” she faltered, blaming it more on the alcohol coursing through her system than what it actually was, her own uncertainty rising to the surface. Sansa leaned on the headrest of her chair, feeling the heaviness of her head even more than before.

Her bodyguard shot her a look like he didn’t believe her,  _ Nothing escapes him. _

“As long as it takes,” she finally mustered the courage to say, but felt a loss in her resolve. She repeated it, “As long as it takes, to accomplish….what I came here for.”

“And what is that?” he asked, leaning forward.

Sansa felt her lips turn up in a smile, though she could not for the life of her understand why. Her lids were heavy, her head spinned. She tried to make something come out of her mouth--but instead she just found herself slipping into the darkness of an alcohol induced sleep.

  
  



End file.
